V 
\ 


HANDS     OFF!"      CRIED     CUMNER'S     SON 


CUMNER'S  SON 

AND 

OTHER  SOUTH  SEA  FOLK 

BY 

GILBERT    PARKER 


HARPER  6-  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND   LONDON 

MCMX 


BOOKS  BY 
GILBERT    PARKER 

CUMNER'S  SON Post  8vo  net  $1.20 

NORTHERN  LIGHTS.     Illustrated   .     .     Post  8vo  1.50 

THE  WEAVERS.     Illustrated      .     .     .     Post  8vo  i .  50 

THE  RIGHT  OF  WAY.     Illustrated     .     Post  8vo  i .  50 

A  LADDER  OF  SWORDS.    Illustrated.     Post  8vo  1.50 

THE  LANE  THAT  HAD  No  TURNING      Post  8vo  1.50 

THE  BATTLE  OF  THE  STRONG.     .     .     Post  8vo  1.50 

AN  ADVENTURER  OP  THE  NORTH.     .     .      i6mo  1.25 

A  LOVER'S  DIARY i6mo  1.25 

PIERRE  AND  His  PEOPLE i6mo  1.25 

A  ROMANY  OP  THE  SNOWS i6mo  1.25 

WHEN  VALMOND  CAME  TO  PONTIAC      .      i6mo  1.25 


MRS.  FALCHION.  THE  POMP  OP  THE  LAVI- 

THE  TRESPASSER.  LBTTES. 

THE  TRANSLATION   OP  A  DONOVAN  PASHA. 

SAVAGE.  OLD  QUEBEC  (In  collabora- 
THE  TRAIL  OP  THE  SWORD        tion  with  C.  G.  Bryan). 

THE   SEATS   OP  THE  ROUND   THE   COMPASS   IN 

MIGHTY.  AUSTRALIA. 

EMBERS  (Private  Publication  only). 


Copyright,  1910,  by  GILBERT  PARKER 

Published  September,  1910. 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PAG* 

CUMNER'S  SON i 

THE  HIGH  COURT  OF  BUDGERY-GAR 74 

AN  EPIC  IN  YELLOW 82 

DIBBS,  R.N go 

A  LITTLE  MASQUERADE 100 

DERELICT 109 

OLD  ROSES 117 

MY  WIFE'S  LOVERS 128 

THE  STRANGERS'   HUT 137 

THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 144 

BARBARA  GOLDING 163 

THE  LONE  CORVETTE 191 

A  SABLE  SPARTAN 204 

A  VULGAR  FRACTION 210 

How  PANGO  WANGO  WAS  ANNEXED 217 

AN  AMIABLE  REVENGE 226 

THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  THE  LITTLE  RED  PEG   .     .  232 

A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 245 

A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH          ....  281 


CUMNER'S   SON 

AND 

OTHER  SOUTH  SEA  FOLK 


CUMNER'S  SON 


THE   CHOOSING   OF   THE    MESSENGER 

THERE  was  trouble  at  Mandakan.  You  could 
not  have  guessed  it  from  anything  the  eye  could 
see.  In  front  of  the  Residency  two  soldiers  march- 
ed up  and  down  sleepily,  mechanically,  between 
two  ten-pounders — marking  the  limit  of  their 
patrol ;  and  an  orderly  stood  at  an  open  door,  lazily 
shifting  his  eyes  from  the  sentinels  to  the  black 
guns,  which  gave  out  soft,  quivering  waves  of 
heat,  as  a  wheel,  spinning,  throws  off  delicate 
spray.  A  hundred  yards  away  the  sea  spread 
out,  languid  and  huge.  It  was  under-tinged  with 
all  the  colors  of  a  morning  sunrise  over  Mount 
Bobar,  not  far  beyond,  lifting  up  its  somnolent 
and  massive  head  into  the  eastern  sky.  "League- 
long  rollers"  came  in  as  steady  as  columns  of 
infantry,  with  white  streamers  flying  along  the 
line,  and,  hovering  a  moment,  split,  and  ran  on 
the  shore  in  a  crumbling  foam,  like  myriads  of 
white  mice  hurrying  up  the  sand. 

A  little  cloud  of  tobacco  smoke  came  curling 


CUMNER'S   SON 

out  of  a  window  of  the  Residency.  It  was  sniffed 
up  by  the  orderly,  whose  pipe  was  in  barracks, 
and  must  lie  there  untouched  until  evening  at 
least;  for  he  had  stood  at  this  door  since  seven 
that  morning,  waiting  orders ;  and  he  knew  by  the 
look  on  Colonel  Cumner's  face  that  he  might  be 
there  till  to-morrow. 

But  the  ordinary  spectator  could  not  have 
noticed  any  difference  in  the  general  look  of  things. 
All  was  quiet,  too,  in  the  big  native  city.  At  the 
doorways  the  worker  in  brass  and  silver  ham- 
mered away  at  his  metal,  a  sleepy,  musical  as- 
sonance. The  naked  seller  of  sweetmeats  went 
by  calling  his  wares  in  a  gentle,  unassertive  voice; 
in  dark  doorways  worn-eyed  women  and  men 
gossiped  in  voices  scarce  above  a  whisper;  and 
brown  children  fondled  each  other,  laughing  noise- 
lessly, or  lay  asleep  on  rugs  that  would  be  costly 
elsewhere.  In  the  bazaars  nothing  was  selling, 
and  no  man  did  anything  but  mumble  or  eat,  save 
the  few  scholars  who,  cross-legged  on  their  mats, 
read  and  labored  toward  Nirvana.  Priests  in  their 
yellow  robes  and  with  bare  shoulders  went  by 
oblivious  of  all  things. 

Yet,  too,  the  keen  observer  could  have  seen, 
gathered  into  shaded  corners  here  and  there,  a 
few  sombre,  low-voiced  men  talking  covertly  to 
each  other.  They  were  not  the  ordinary  gossipers ; 
in  the  faces  of  some  were  the  marks  of  furtive 
design,  of  sinister  suggestion.  But  it  was  all  so 
deadly  still. 


CUMNER'S    SON 

The  gayest,  cheeriest  person  in  Mandakan  was 
Colonel  Cumner's  son.  Down  at  the  opal  beach, 
under  a  palm-tree,  he  sat,  telling  stories  of  his 
pranks  at  college  to  Boonda  Broke,  the  half-breed 
son  of  a  former  Dakoon  who  had  ruled  the  State 
of  Mandakan  when  first  the  English  came.  The 
saddest  person  in  Mandakan  was  the  present 
Dakoon,  in  his  palace  by  the  fountain  of  the  Sweet 
Waters,  which  was  guarded  by  four  sacred  war- 
riors in  stone  and  four  brown  men  armed  with  the 
naked  kris. 

The  Dakoon  was  dying,  though  not  a  score 
of  people  in  the  city  knew  it.  He  had  drunk  of 
the  Fountain  of  Sweet  Waters,  also  of  the  well  that 
is  by  Bakbar;  he  had  eaten  of  the  sweetmeat 
called  the  Flower  of  Bambaba,  his  chosen  priests 
had  prayed,  and  his  favorite  wife  had  lain  all  day 
and  all  night  at  the  door  of  his  room,  pouring  out 
her  soul;  but  nothing  came  of  it. 

And  elsewhere  Boonda  Broke  was  showing  Cum- 
ner's Son  how  to  throw  a  kris  toward  one  object 
and  make  it  hit  another.  He  gave  an  illustration 
by  aiming  at  a  palm-tree  and  sticking  a  passing 
dog  behind  the  shoulder.  The  dog  belonged  to 
Cumner's  Son,  and  the  lad's  face  suddenly  blazed 
with  anger.  He  ran  to  the  dog,  which  had  silently 
collapsed  like  a  punctured  bag  of  silk,  drew  out  the 
kris,  then  swung  toward  Boonda  Broke,  whose 
cool,  placid  eyes  met  his  without  emotion. 

"You  knew  that  was  my  dog,"  he  said,  quickly, 
in  English,  "and — and  I  tell  you  what,  sir,  I've 

3 


CUMNER'S    SON 

had  enough  of  you.  A  man  that  'd  hit  a  dog  like 
that  would  hit  a  man  the  same  way." 

He  was  standing  with  the  crimson  kris  in  his 
hand  above  the  dog.  His  passion  was  frank, 
vigorous,  and  natural. 

Boonda  Broke  smiled  passively. 

"You  mean,  could  hit  a  man  the  same  way, 
honored  lord." 

"I  mean  what  I  said,"  answered  the  lad,  and  he 
turned  on  his  heel;  but  presently  he  faced  about 
again  as  though  with  a  wish  to  give  his  foe  the 
benefit  of  any  doubt.  Though  Boonda  Broke  was 
smiling,  the  lad's  face  flushed  again  with  anger, 
for  the  man's  real  character  had  been  revealed  to 
him  on  the  instant,  and  he  was  yet  in  the  indignant 
warmth  of  the  new  experience.  If  he  had  known 
that  Boonda  Broke  had  cultivated  his  friendship 
for  months  to  worm  out  of  him  all  the  secrets  of 
the  Residency,  there  might  have  been  a  violent 
and  immediate  conclusion  to  the  incident,  for  the 
lad  was  fiery,  and  he  had  no  fear  in  his  heart; 
he  was  combative,  high-tempered,  and  daring. 
Boonda  Broke  had  learned  no  secrets  from  him, 
had  been  met  by  an  unconscious  but  steady  resist- 
ance, and  at  length  his  patience  had  given  way 
in  spite  of  himself.  He  had  white  blood  in  his 
veins — fighting  Irish  blood — which  sometimes 
overcame  his  smooth,  Oriental  secretiveness  and 
cautious  duplicity;  and  this  was  one  of  those 
occasions.  He  had  flung  the  knife  at  the  dog  with 
a  wish  in  his  heart  that  it  was  Cumner's  Son  in- 


CUMNER'S    SON 

stead.  As  he  stood  looking  after  the  English  lad, 
he  said  between  his  teeth  with  a  great  hatred, 
though  his  face  showed  no  change: 

"English  dog,  thou  shalt  be  dead  like  thy 
brother  there  when  I  am  Dakoon  of  Mandakan." 

At  this  moment  he  saw  hurrying  toward  him 
one  of  those  natives  who,  a  little  while  before,  had 
been  in  close  and  furtive  talk  in  the  Bazaar. 

Meanwhile  the  little  cloud  of  smoke  kept  curling 
out  of  the  Governor's  door,  and  the  orderly  could 
catch  the  fitful  murmur  of  talk  that  followed  it. 
Presently  rifle-shots  rang  out  somewhere.  Instant- 
ly a  tall,  broad-shouldered  figure,  in  white  undress 
uniform,  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  spoke 
quickly  to  the  orderly.  In  a  moment  two  troopers 
were  galloping  out  of  the  Residency  Square  and 
into  the  city.  Before  two  minutes  had  passed  one 
had  ridden  back  to  the  orderly,  who  reported  to 
the  Colonel  that  the  Dakoon  had  commanded  the 
shooting  of  five  men  of  the  tribe  of  the  outlaw  hill- 
chief,  Pango  Dooni,  against  the  rear  wall  of  the 
Palace,  where  the  Dakoon  might  look  from  his 
window  and  see  the  dead. 

The  Colonel  sat  up  eagerly  in  his  chair,  then 
brought  his  knuckles  down  smartly  on  the  table. 
He  looked  sharply  at  the  three  men  who  sat  with 
him. 

"That  clinches  it,"  said  he.  "One  of  those 
fellows  was  Pango  Doom's  nephew,  another  was 
his  wife's  brother.  It's  the  only  thing  to  do — 
some  one  must  go  to  Pango  Dooni,  tell  him  the 

5 


CUMNER'S    SON 

truth,  ask  him  to  come  down  and  save  the  place, 
and  sit  up  there  in  the  Dakoon's  place.  He'll 
stand  by  us,  and  by  England." 

No  one  answered  at  first.  Every  face  was 
gloomy.  At  last  a  gray-haired  captain  of  artillery 
spoke  his  mind  in  broken  sentences : 

"Never  do — have  to  ride  through  a  half-dozen 
sneaking  tribes — Pango  Dooni,  rank  robber — steal 
like  a  barrack  cat — besides,  no  man  could  get  there. 
Better  stay  where  we  are  and  fight  it  out  till  help 
conies." 

"Help!"  said  Cumner,  bitterly.  "We  might 
wait  six  months  before  a  man-of-war  put  in.  The 
danger  is  a  matter  of  hours.  A  hundred  men  and 
a  score  of  niggers — what  would  that  be  against 
thirty  thousand  natives?" 

"Pango  Dooni  is  as  likely  to  butcher  us  as  the 
Dakoon! "  said  McDermot,  the  captain  of  artillery. 
Every  man  in  the  garrison  had  killed  at  least  one 
of  Pango  Dooni's  men,  and  every  man  of  them 
was  known  from  the  Kimar  Gate  to  the  Neck 
of  Baroob,  where  Pango  Dooni  lived  and 
ruled. 

The  Colonel  was  not  to  be  moved.  "I'd  ride  the 
ninety  miles  myself,  if  my  place  weren't  here — no, 
don't  think  I  doubt  you,  for  I  know  you  all!  But 
consider  the  nest  of  murderers  that  '11  be  let  loose 
here  when  the  Dakoon  dies.  Better  a  strong 
robber  with  a  strong  robber's  honor  to  perch  there 
in  the  Palace,  than  Boonda  Broke  and  his  cut- 
throats—" 

6 


CUMNER'S   SON 

"Honor — honor? — Pango  Dooni!"  broke  out 
McDermot  the  gunner,  scornfully. 

"I  know  the  man,"  said  the  Governor,  gruffly; 
"I  know  the  man,  I  tell  you,  and  I'd  take  his  word 
for  a  thousand  pounds  or  a  thousand  head  of 
cattle.  Is  there  any  of  you  will  ride  to  the  Neck 
of  Baroob  for  me?  For  one  it  must  be,  and  no 
more — we  can  spare  scarce  that,  God  knows!" 
he  added,  sadly.  "The  women  and  children — " 

"I  will  go,"  said  a  voice  behind  them  all;  and 
Cumner's  Son  stepped  forward.  "I  will  go,  if  I 
may  ride  the  big  sorrel  from  the  Dakoon's  stud." 

The  Colonel  swung  round  in  his  chair  and  stared 
mutely  at  the  lad.  He  was  only  eighteen  years 
old,  but  of  good  stature,  well-knit,  and  straight 
as  a  sapling. 

Seeing  that  no  one  answered  him,  but  sat  and 
stared  incredulously,  he  laughed  a  little,  frankly 
and  boyishly. 

"The  kris  of  Boonda  Broke  is  for  the  hearts  of 
every  one  of  us, "  said  he.  "  He  may  throw  it  soon 
— to-night,  to-morrow.  No  man  can  leave  here — 
all  are  needed ;  but  a  boy  can  ride ;  he  is  light  in  the 
saddle,  and  he  may  pass  where  a  man  would  be 
caught  in  a  rain  of  bullets.  I  have  ridden  the 
sorrel  of  the  Dakoon  often;  he  has  pressed  it  on 
me;  I  will  go  to  the  master  of  his  stud,  and  I  will 
ride  to  the  Neck  of  Baroob." 

"No,  no,"  said  one  after  the  other,  getting  to  his 
feet,  "  I  will  go." 

The  Governor  waved  them  down.     "The  lad  is 


CUMNER'S   SON 

right,"  said  he,  and  he  looked  him  closely  and 
proudly  in  the  eyes.  "By  the  mercy  of  God, 
you  shall  ride  the  ride,"  said  he.  "Once  when 
Pango  Dooni  was  in  the  city,  in  disguise,  aye,  even 
in  the  Garden  of  the  Dakoon,  the  night  of  the 
Dance  of  the  Yellow  Fire,  I  myself  helped  him  to 
escape,  for  I  stand  for  a  fearless  robber  before  a 
cowardly  saint."  His  gray  mustache  and  eye- 
brows bristled  with  energy  as  he  added:  "The  lad 
shall  go.  He  shall  carry  in  his  breast  the  bracelet 
with  the  red  stone  that  Pango  Dooni  gave  me. 
On  the  stone  is  written  the  countersign  that  all 
hillsmen  heed,  and  the  tribe-call  I  know  also." 

"The  danger — the  danger! — and  the  lad  so 
young!"  said  McDermot;  but  yet  his  eyes  rested 
lovingly  on  the  boy. 

The  Colonel  threw  up  his  head  in  anger.  "If  I, 
his  father,  can  let  him  go,  why  should 'you  prate 
like  women?  The  lad  is  my  son,  and  he  shall 
win  his  spurs — and  more,  and  more,  maybe,"  he 
added. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  Pango  Dooni 's  gift  and 
gave  it  to  the  lad,  and  three  times  he  whispered  in 
his  ear  the  tribe-call  and  the  countersign  that  he 
might  know  them.  The  lad  repeated  them  three 
times,  and,  with  his  finger,  traced  the  countersign 
upon  the  stone. 

That  night  he  rode  silently  out  of  the  Dakoon's 
Palace  yard  by  a  quiet  gateway,  and  came,  by  a 
roundabout,  to  a  point  near  the  Residency. 

He  halted  under  a  flame-tree,  and  a  man  came 
8 


CUMNER'S    SON 

out  of  the  darkness  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his 
knee. 

"Ride  straight  and  swift  from  the  Kimar  Gate. 
Pause  by  the  Koongat  Bridge  an  hour,  rest  three 
hours  at  the  bar  of  Balmud,  then  pause  again  where 
the  roof  of  the  Brown  Hermit  drums  on  the  sorrel's 
hoofs.  Ride  for  the  sake  of  the  women  and  chil- 
dren and  for  your  own  honor.  Ride  like  a  Cum- 
ner,lad!" 

The  last  sound  of  the  sorrel's  hoofs  upon  the  red 
dust  beat  in  the  Colonel's  ears  all  night  long,  as  he 
sat  waiting  for  news  from  the  Palace,  the  sentinels 
walking  up  and  down,  the  orderly  at  the  door,  and 
Boonda  Broke  plotting  in  the  town. 


II 

"REST  AT  THE  KOONGAT  BRIDGE  AN  HOUR" 

THERE  was  no  moon,  and  but  few  stars  were 
shining.  When  Cumner's  Son  first  set  out  from 
Mandakan  he  could  scarcely  see  at  all,  and  he  kept 
his  way  through  the  native  villages  more  by 
instinct  than  by  sight.  As  time  passed  he  saw 
more  clearly;  he  could  make  out  the  figures  of 
natives  lying  under  trees  or  rising  from  their  mats 
to  note  the  flying  horseman.  Lights  flickered  here 
and  there  in  the  houses  and  by  the  roadside.  A 
late  traveller  turned  a  cake  in  the  ashes  or  stirred 
some  rice  in  a  calabash;  an  anxious  mother  put 
some  sandalwood  on  the  coals  and  added  incense, 
that  the  gods  might  be  good  to  her  ailing  child  on 
the  mat;  and  thrice,  at  forges  in  the  village,  he 
saw  the  smith  languidly  beating  iron  into  shape, 
while  dark  figures  sat  on  the  floor  near  by,  and 
smoked  and  murmured  to  each  other. 

These  last  showed  alertness  at  the  sound  of  the 
flying  sorrel's  hoofs,  and  all  at  once  a  tall,  keen- 
eyed  horseman  sprang  to  the  broad  doorway  and 
strained  his  eyes  into  the  night  after  Cumner's  Son. 
He  waited  a  few  moments;  then,  as  if  with  a 

10 


CUMNER'S    SON 

sudden  thought,  he  ran  to  a  horse  tethered  near 
by  and  vaulted  into  the  saddle.  At  a  word  his 
chesnut  mare  got  away  with  telling  stride  in 
pursuit  of  the  unknown  rider,  passing  up  the  Gap 
of  Mandakan  like  a  ghost. 

Cumner's  Son  had  a  start  by  about  half  a  mile, 
but  Tang-a-Dahit  rode  a  mare  that  had  once 
belonged  to  Pango  Dooni,  and  Pango  Dooni  had 
got  her  from  Colonel  Cumner  the  night  he  escaped 
from  Mandakan.  For  this  mare  the  hill-chief  had 
returned  no  gift  save  the  gold  bracelet  which 
Cumner's  Son  now  carried  in  his  belt. 

The  mare  leaned  low  on  her  bit,  and  travelled  like 
a  thirsty  hound  to  water,  the  sorrel  tugged  at  the 
snaffle,  and  went  like  a  bull  moose  hurrying  to 
his  herd — 

"That  long  low  gallop  that  can  tire 
The  hounds'  deep  hate  or  hunter's  fire." 

The  pace  was  with  the  sorrel.  Cumner's  Son 
had  not  looked  behind  after  the  first  few  miles, 
for  then  he  had  given  up  thought  that  he  might 
be  followed.  He  sat  in  his  saddle  like  a  plainsman ; 
he  listened  like  a  hillsman;  he  endured  like  an 
Arab  water-carrier.  There  was  not  an  ounce  of 
useless  flesh  on  his  body,  and  every  limb,  bone, 
and  sinew  had  been  stretched  and  hardened  by 
riding  with  the  Dakoon's  horsemen,  by  travelling 
through  the  jungle  for  the  tiger  and  the  panther, 
by  throwing  the  kris  with  Boonda  Broke,  fencing 
with  McDermot,  and  by  sabre  practice  with  red- 

ii 


CUMNER'S   SON 

headed  Sergeant  Doolan  in  the  barracks  by  the 
Residency  Square.  After  twenty  miles'  ride  he 
was  dry  as  a  bone,  after  thirty  his  skin  was  moist 
but  not  damp,  and  there  was  not  a  drop  of  sweat 
on  the  skin-leather  of  his  fatigue  cap.  When  he 
got  to  Koongat  Bridge  he  was  like  a  racer  after 
practice,  ready  for  a  fight  from  start  to  finish. 
Yet  he  was  not  foolhardy.  He  knew  the  danger 
that  beset  him,  for  he  could  not  tell,  in  the  crisis 
come  to  Mandakan,  what  designs  might  be  abroad. 
He  now  saw  through  Boonda  Broke's  friendship  for 
him,  and  he  only  found  peace  for  his  mind  upon 
the  point  by  remembering  that  he  had  told  no 
secrets,  had  given  no  information  of  any  use  to 
the  foes  of  the  Dakoon  or  the  haters  of  the  English. 

On  this  hot,  long,  silent  ride  he  looked  back 
carefully,  but  he  could  not  see  where  he  had  been 
to  blame;  and,  if  he  were,  he  hoped  to  strike  a 
balance  with  his  own  conscience  for  having  been 
friendly  with  Boonda  Broke,  and  to  justify  him- 
self in  his  father's  eyes.  If  he  came  through  all 
right,  then  "the  Governor" — as  he  called  his 
father,  with  the  friendly  affection  of  a  good  com- 
rade, and  as  all  others  in  Mandakan  called  him 
because  of  his  position — the  Governor  then  would 
say  that  whatever  harm  he  had  done  indirectly 
was  now  undone. 

He  got  down  at  the  Koongat  Bridge,  and  his 
fingers  were  still  in  the  sorrel's  mane  when  he 
heard  the  call  of  a  bittern  from  the  river-bank. 
He  did  not  loose  his  fingers,  but  stood  still  and 

12 


CUMNER'S   SON 

listened  intently,  for  there  was  scarcely  a  sound 
of  the  plain,  the  river,  the  jungle  he  did  not  know, 
and  his  ear  was  keen  to  balance  'twixt  the  false 
note  and  the  true.  He  waited  for  the  sound 
again.  From  that  first  call  he  could  not  be  sure 
which  had  startled  him,  the  night  was  so  still — 
the  voice  of  a  bird  or  the  call  between  men  lying 
in  ambush.  He  tried  the  trigger  of  his  pistol 
softly,  and  prepared  to  mount.  As  he  did  so  the 
call  rang  out  across  the  water  again — a  little 
louder,  a  little  longer. 

Now  he  was  sure.  It  was  not  from  a  bittern; 
it  was  a  human  voice,  of  whose  tribe  he  knew  not — 
Pango  Doom's,  Boonda  Broke's,  the  Dakoon's,  or 
the  segments  of  peoples  that  belonged  to  none  of 
these — highway  robbers,  cattle-stealers,  or  the 
men  of  the  jungle,  those  creatures  as  wild  and 
secret  as  the  beasts  of  the  bush,  and  more  cruel 
and  more  furtive. 

The  fear  of  the  ambushed  thing  is  the  worst 
fear  of  this  world — the  sword  or  the  rifle-barrel 
you  cannot  see  and  the  poisoned  wooden  spear 
which  the  men  of  the  jungle  throw  gives  a  man 
ten  deaths  instead  of  one. 

Cumner's  Son  mounted  quickly,  straining  his 
eyes  to  see  and  keeping  his  pistol  cocked.  When 
he  heard  the  call  a  second  time  he  had  for  a 
moment  a  thrill  of  fear,  not  in  his  body,  but  in  his 
brain.  He  had  that  fatal  gift,  imagination,  which 
is  more  alive  than  flesh  and  bone,  stronger  than 
iron  and  steel.  In  his  mind  he  saw  a  hundred 

13 


CUMNER'S  SON 

men  rise  up  from  ambush,  surround  him,  and  cut 
him  down.  He  saw  himself  firing  a  half-dozen 
shots,  then  drawing  his  sword  and  fighting  till  he 
fell;  but  he  did  fall  in  the  end,  and  there  was  an 
end  of  it.  It  seemed  like  years  while  these  visions 
passed  through  his  mind,  but  it  was  no  longer  than 
it  took  to  gather  the  snaffle-rein  close  to  the  sorrel's 
neck,  draw  his  sword,  clinch  it  in  his  left  hand 
with  the  rein,  and  gather  the  pistol  snugly  in  his 
right.  He  listened  again.  As  he  touched  the  sorrel 
with  his  knee  he  thought  he  heard  a  sound  ahead. 

The  sorrel  sprang  forward,  sniffed  the  air,  and 
threw  up  his  head.  His  feet  struck  the  resounding 
timbers  of  the  bridge,  and,  as  they  did  so,  he 
shied;  but  Cumner's  Son,  looking  down  sharply, 
could  see  nothing  to  either  the  right  or  left — no 
movement  anywhere  save  the  dim  trees  on  the 
banks  waving  in  the  light  wind  which  had  risen. 
A  crocodile  slipped  off  a  log  into  the  water — he 
knew  that  sound;  a  rank  odor  came  from  the 
river-bank — he  knew  the  smell  of  the  hippopot- 
amus. 

These  very  things  gave  him  new  courage.  Since 
he  came  from  Eton  to  Mandakan  he  had  hunted 
often  and  well,  and  once  he  had  helped  to  quarry 
the  Little  Men  of  the  Jungle  when  they  carried  off 
the  wife  and  daughter  of  a  soldier  of  the  Dakoon. 
The  smell  and  the  sound  of  wild  life  roused  all  the 
hunter  in  him.  He  had  fear  no  longer;  the 
primitive  emotion  of  fighting  or  self-defence  was 
alive  in  him. 

14 


CUMNER'S   SON 

He  had  left  the  bridge  behind  by  twice  the 
horse's  length,  when,  all  at  once,  the  call  of  the 
red  bittern  rang  out  the  third  time  louder  than 
before;  then  again;  and  then  the  cry  of  a  gray 
wolf  came  in  response. 

His  peril  was  upon  him.  He  put  spurs  to  the 
sorrel.  As  he  did  so,  dark  figures  sprang  up  on  all 
sides  of  him.  Without  a  word  he  drove  the 
excited  horse  at  his  assailants.  Three  caught  his 
bridle-rein,  and  others  snatched  at  him  to  draw 
him  from  his  horse. 

"Hands  off!"  he  cried,  in  the  language  of  Man- 
dakan,  and  levelled  his  pistol. 

"He  is  English!"  said  a  voice.  "Cut  him 
down!" 

"I  am  the  Governor's  son,"  said  the  lad.     "Let 

got" 

"Cut  him  down!"  snarled  the  voice  again. 

He  fired  twice  quickly. 

Then  he  remembered  the  tribe-call  given  his 
father  by  Pango  Dooni.  Rising  in  his  saddle 
and  firing  again,  he  called  it  out  in  a  loud  voice. 
His  plunging  horse  had  broken  away  from  two 
of  the  murderers;  but  one  still  held  on,  and  he 
slashed  the  hand  free  with  his  sword. 

The  natives  were  made  furious  by  the  call,  and 
came  on  again,  striking  at  him  with  their  krises. 
He  shouted  the  tribe-call  once  more,  but  this  time 
it  was  done  involuntarily.  There  was  no  response 
in  front  of  him,  but  one  came  from  behind. 
There  was  clattering  of  hoofs  on  Koongat  Bridge, 
2  15 


CUMNER'S  SON 

and  the  password  of  the  clan  came  back  to  the 
lad,  even  as  a  kris  struck  him  in  the  leg  and  drew 
out  again.  Once  again  he  called,  and  suddenly 
a  horseman  appeared  beside  him,  who  clove 
through  a  native's  head  with  a  broadsword,  and 
with  a  pistol  fired  at  the  fleeing  figures;  for 
Boonda  Broke's  men,  who  were  thus  investing  the 
highway  up  to  Koongat  Bridge,  and  even  beyond, 
up  to  the  Bar  of  Balmud,  hearing  the  new-comer 
shout  the  dreaded  name  of  Pango  Dooni,  scattered 
for  their  lives,  though  they  were  yet  twenty  to 
two.  One  stood  his  ground,  and  it  would  have 
gone  ill  for  Cumner's  Son,  for  this  thief  had  him  at 
fatal  advantage,  had  it  not  been  for  the  horseman 
who  had  followed  the  lad  from  the  forge-fire  to 
Koongat  Bridge.  He  stood  up  in  his  stirrups 
and  cut  down  with  his  broadsword,  so  that  the 
blade  was  driven  through  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  his  foe  as  a  woodsman  splits  a  log  half  through, 
and  grunts  with  the  power  of  his  stroke. 

Then  he  turned  to  the  lad. 

' '  What  stranger  calls  by  the  word  of  our  tribe  ? " 
he  asked. 

"I  am  Cumner's  Son,"  was  the  answer,  "and 
my  father  is  brother-in-blood  with  Pango  Dooni. 
I  ride  to  Pango  Dooni  for  the  women  and  children's 
sake." 

"Proof!  Proof!  If  you  be  Cumner's  Son, 
another  word  should  be  yours." 

The  Colonel's  Son  took  out  the  bracelet  from 
his  breast.  "It  is  safe  hid  here,"  said  he,  "and 

16 


CUMNER'S   SON 

hid  also  under  my  tongue.  If  you  be  from  the 
Neck  of  Baroob  you  will  know  it  when  I  speak  it," 
and  he  spoke  reverently  the  sacred  countersign. 

By  a  little  fire  kindled  in  the  road,  the  bodies 
of  their  foes  beside  them,  they  vowed  to  each 
other,  mingling  their  blood  from  dagger  -  pricks 
in  the  arm.  Then  they  mounted  again,  and  rode 
toward  the  Neck  of  Baroob. 

In  silence  they  rode  awhile,  and  at  last  the  hills- 
man  said :  "If  fathers  be  brothers-in-blood,  behold 
it  is  good  that  sons  be  also." 

By  this  the  lad  knew  that  he  was  now  brother- 
in-blood  to  the  son  of  Pango  Dooni. 


Ill 

THE    CODE    OF   THE    HILLS 

"You  travel  near  to  Mandakan!"  said  the  lad. 
"Do  you  ride  with  a  thousand  men?" 

"For  a  thousand  men  there  are  ten  thousand 
eyes  to  see;  I  travel  alone  and  safe,"  answered 
Tang-a-Dahit. 

"To  thrust  your  head  in  the  tiger's  jaw,"  said 
Cumner's  Son.  "Did  you  ride  to  be  in  at  the 
death  of  the  men  of  your  clan?" 

"A  man  will  ride  for  a  face  that  he  loves,  even 
to  the  Dreadful  Gates,"  answered  Tang-a-Dahit. 
"But  what  is  this  of  the  men  of  my  clan?" 

Then  the  lad  told  him  of  those  whose  heads  hung 
on  the  rear  Palace  wall,  where  the  Dakoon  lay 
dying,  and  why  he  rode  to  Pango  Dooni. 

"It  is  fighting  and  fighting,  naught  but  fighting," 
said  Tang-a-Dahit,  after  a  pause ;  ' '  and  there  is  no 
peace.  It  is  fighting  and  fighting,  for  honor  and 
glory,  and  houses  and  cattle,  but  naught  for  love, 
and  naught  that  there  may  be  peace." 

Cumner's  Son  turned  round  in  his  saddle  as  if  to 
read  the  face  of  the  man,  but  it  was  too  dark. 

"And  naught  that  there  may  be  peace."  Those 
18 


CUMNER'S   SON 

were  the  words  of  a  hillsman  who  had  followed 
him  furiously  in  the  night  ready  to  kill,  who  had 
cloved  the  head  of  a  man  like  a  piece  of  soap,  and 
had  been  riding  even  unto  Mandakan,  where  a 
price  was  set  on  his  head. 

For  long  they  rode  silently,  and  in  that  time 
Cumner's  Son  found  new  thoughts;  and  these 
thoughts  made  him  love  the  brown  hillsman  as 
he  had  never  loved  any  save  his  own  father. 

"When  there  is  peace  in  Mandakan,"  said  he, 
at  last,  "when  Boonda  Broke  is  snapped  in  two 
like  a  pencil,  when  Pango  Dooni  sits  as  Dakoon  in 
the  Palace  of  Mandakan — " 

"There  is  a  maid  in  Mandakan,"  interrupted 
Tang-a-Dahit,  "and  these  two  years  she  has  lain 
upon  her  bed,  and  she  may  not  be  moved,  for  the 
bones  of  her  body  are  as  the  soft  stems  of  the  lily, 
but  her  face  is  a  perfect  face,  and  her  tongue  has 
the  wisdom  of  God." 

"You  ride  to  her  through  the  teeth  of  danger?" 

"She  may  not  come  to  me,  and  I  must  go  to 
her,"  answered  the  hillsman. 

There  was  silence  again  for  a  long  time,  for 
Cumner's  Son  was  turning  things  over  in  his  mind ; 
and  all  at  once  he  felt  that  each  man's  acts  must 
be  judged  by  the  blood  that  is  in  him  and  the 
trail  by  which  he  has  come. 

The  sorrel  and  the  chestnut  mare  travelled 
together  as  on  one  snaffle-bar,  step  by  step,  for 
they  were  foaled  in  the  same  stable.  Through 
stretches  of  reed-beds  and  wastes  of  osiers  they 

19 


CUMNER'S   SON 

passed,  and  again  by  a  path  through  the  jungle 
where  the  brier-vines  caught  at  them  like  eager 
fingers,  and  a  tiger  crossed  their  track,  disturbed  in 
his  night's  rest.  At  length  out  of  the  dank  dis- 
tance they  saw  the  first  color  of  dawn. 

"Ten  miles,"  said  Tang-a-Dahit,  "and  we 
shall  come  to  the  Bar  of  Balmud.  Then  we  shall 
be  in  my  own  country.  See,  the  dawn  comes  up! 
'Twixt  here  and  the  Bar  of  Balmud  our  danger 
lies.  A  hundred  men  may  ambush  there,  for 
Boonda  Broke 's  thieves  have  scattered  all  the  way 
from  Mandakan  to  our  borders." 

Cumner's  Son  looked  round.  There  were  hills 
and  defiles  everywhere,  and  a  thousand  places  where 
foes  could  hide.  The  quickest  way,  but  the  most 
perilous,  lay  through  the  long  defile  between  the 
hills,  flanked  by  bowlders  and  rank  scrub.  Tang-a- 
Dahit  pointed  out  the  ways  that  they  might  go- 
by the  path  to  the  left  along  the  hills,  or  through 
the  green  defile;  and  Cumner's  Son  instantly 
chose  the  latter  way. 

"If  the  fight  were  fair,"  said  the  hillsman,  "and 
it  were  man  to  man,  the  defile  is  the  better  way; 
but  these  be  dogs  of  cowards  who  strike  from 
behind  rocks.  No  one  of  them  has  a  heart  truer 
than  Boonda  Broke's,  the  master  of  the  carrion. 
We  will  go  by  the  hills.  The  way  is  harder  but 
more  open,  and  if  we  be  prospered  we  will  rest 
awhile  at  the  Bar  of  Balmud,  and  at  noon  we  will 
tether  and  eat  in  the  Neck  of  Baroob." 

They  made  their  way  through  the  medlar-trees 
20 


CUMNER'S   SON 

and  scrub  to  the  plateau  above,  and,  the  height 
gained,  they  turned  to  look  back.  The  sun  was 
up,  and  trailing  rose  and  amber  garments  across 
the  great  eastern  arch.  Their  path  lay  toward 
it,  for  Pango  Dooni  hid  in  the  hills,  where  the 
sun  hung,  a  roof  of  gold  above  his  stronghold. 

"Forty  to  one!"  said  Tang-a-Dahit,  suddenly. 
"Now  indeed  we  ride  for  our  lives!" 

Looking  down  the  track  of  the  hillsman's 
glance  Cumner's  Son  saw  a  bunch  of  horsemen 
galloping  up  the  slope.  Boonda  Broke's  men! 

The  sorrel  and  the  mare  were  fagged,  the  horses 
of  their  foes  were  fresh,  and  forty  to  one  were  odds 
that  no  man  would  care  to  take.  It  might  be 
that  some  of  Pango  Dooni's  men  lay  between  them 
and  the  Bar  of  Balmud,  but  the  chance  was  faint. 

"By  the  hand  of  Heaven,"  said  the  hillsman,  "if 
we  reach  to  the  Bar  of  Balmud,  these  dogs  shall 
eat  their  own  heads  for  dinner!" 

They  set  their  horses  in  the  way,  and  gave  the 
sorrel  and  mare  the  bit  and  spur.  The  beasts 
leaned  again  to  their  work  as  though  they  had 
just  come  from  a  feeding-stall  and  knew  their 
riders'  needs.  The  men  rode  light  and  free,  and 
talked  low  to  their  horses  as  friend  talks  to  friend. 
Five  miles  or  more  they  went  so,  and  then  the 
mare  stumbled.  She  got  to  her  feet  again,  but 
her  head  dropped  low,  her  nostrils  gaped  red  and 
swollen,  and  the  sorrel  hung  back  with  her,  for 
a  beast,  like  a  man,  will  travel  farther  two  by  two 
than  one  by  one.  At  another  point,  where  they 

21 


CUMNER'S    SON 

had  a  long  view  behind,  they  looked  back.  Their 
pursuers  were  gaining.  Tang-a-Dahit  spurred  his 
horse  on. 

"There  is  one  chance,"  said  he,  "and  only  one. 
See  where  the  point  juts  out  beyond  the  great 
medlar-tree.  If,  by  the  mercy  of  God,  we  can  but 
make  it!" 

The  horses  gallantly  replied  to  call  and  spur. 
They  rounded  a  curve  which  made  a  sort  of  apse 
to  the  side  of  the  valley,  and  presently  they  were 
hid  from  their  pursuers.  Looking  back  from  the 
thicket,  they  saw  the  plainsmen  riding  hard.  All 
at  once  Tang-a-Dahit  stopped. 

"Give  me  the  sorrel,"  said  he.  "Quick — dis- 
mount!" 

Cumner's  Son  did  as  he  was  bid.  Going  a  little 
to  one  side,  the  hillsman  pushed  through  a  thick 
hedge  of  bushes,  rolled  away  a  rock,  and  disclosed 
an  opening  which  led  down  a  steep  and  rough-hewn 
way  to  a  great  misty  valley  beneath,  where  was 
never  a  bridle-path  or  causeway  over  the  brawling 
streams  and  bowlders. 

"I  will  ride  on.  The  mare  is  done,  but  the 
sorrel  can  make  the  Bar  of  Balmud." 

Cumner's  Son  opened  his  mouth  to  question,  but 
stopped,  for  the  eyes  of  the  hillsman  flared  up,  and 
Tang-a-Dahit  said: 

"My  arm  in  blood  has  touched  thy  arm,  and 
thou  art  in  my  hills  and  not  in  thine  own  country. 
Thy  life  is  my  life,  and  thy  good  is  my  good. 
Speak  not,  but  act.  By  the  high  wall  of  the 

22 


CUMNER'S   SON 

valley  where  no  man  bides  there  is  a  path  which 
leads  to  the  Bar  of  Balmud;  but  leave  it  not, 
whether  it  go  up  or  down  or  be  easy  or  hard. 
If  thy  feet  be  steady,  thine  eyes  true,  and  thy 
heart  strong,  thou  shalt  come  by  the  Bar  of  Bal- 
mud among  my  people." 

Then  he  caught  the  hand  of  Cumner's  Son  in  his 
own  and  kissed  him  between  the  eyes,  after  the 
manner  of  a  kinsman,  and,  urging  him  into  the 
opening,  rolled  the  great  stone  into  its  place  again. 
Mounting  the  sorrel,  he  rode  swiftly  out  into  the 
open,  rounded  the  green  point  full  in  view  of  his 
pursuers,  and  was  hid  from  them  in  an  instant. 
Then  dismounting,  he  swiftly  crept  back  through 
the  long  grass  into  the  thicket  again,  mounted  the 
mare,  and  drove  her  at  labored  gallop  also  around 
the  curve,  so  that  it  seemed  to  the  plainsmen 
following  that  both  men  had  gone  that  way.  He 
mounted  the  sorrel  again,  and  loosing  a  long  sash 
from  his  waist  drew  it  through  the  mare's  bit. 
The  mare,  lightened  of  the  weight,  followed  well. 
When  the  plainsmen  came  to  the  cape  of  green, 
they  paused  not  by  the  secret  place,  for  it  seemed 
to  them  that  two  had  ridden  past  and  not  one. 

The  Son  of  Pango  Dooni  had  drawn  pursuit  after 
himself,  for  it  is  the  law  of  the  hills  that  a  hillsman 
shall  give  his  life  or  all  that  he  has  for  a  brother- 
in-blood. 

When  Cumner's  Son  had  gone  a  little  way  he 
understood  it  all!  And  he  would  have  turned 
back,  but  he  knew  that  the  hillsman  had  ridden 

23 


CUMNER'S  SON 

far  beyond  his  reach.  So  he  ran  as  swiftly  as  he 
could;  he  climbed  where  it  might  seem  not  even 
a  chamois  could  find  a  hold;  his  eyes  scarcely 
seeing  the  long,  misty  valley,  where  the  haze 
lay  like  a  vapor  from  another  world.  There  was 
no  sound  anywhere  save  the  brawling  water  or 
the  lonely  cry  of  the  flute-bird.  Here  was  the 
last  refuge  of  the  hillsmen  if  they  should  ever  be 
driven  from  the  Neck  of  Baroob.  They  could 
close  up  every  entrance,  and  live  unscathed;  for 
here  was  land  for  tilling,  and  wood,  and  wild 
fruit,  and  food  for  cattle. 

Cumner's  Son  was  supple  and  swift,  and  scarce 
an  hour  had  passed  ere  he  came  to  a  steep  place 
on  the  other  side,  with  rough  niches  cut  in  the 
rocks,  by  which  a  strong  man  might  lift  himself 
up  to  safety.  He  stood  a  moment  and  ate  some 
coffee-beans  and  drank  some  cold  water  from  a 
stream  at  the  foot  of  the  crag,  and  then  he  began 
his  ascent.  Once  or  twice  he  trembled,  for  he 
was  worn  and  tired;  but  he  remembered  the  last 
words  of  Tang-a-Dahit,  and  his  fingers  tightened 
their  hold.  At  last,  with  a  strain  and  a  gasp,  he 
drew  himself  up,  and  found  himself  on  a  shelf  of 
rock  with  all  the  great  valley  spread  out  beneath 
him.  A  moment  only  he  looked,  resting  himself, 
and  then  he  searched  for  a  way  into  the  hills ;  for 
everywhere  there  was  a  close  palisade  of  rocks  and 
saplings.  At  last  he  found  an  opening  scarce 
bigger  than  might  let  a  cat  through;  but  he 
labored  hard,  and  at  last  drew  himself  out  and 

24 


CUMNER'S  SON 

looked  down  the  path  which  led  into  the  Bar  of 
Balmud — the  great  natural  escarpment  of  giant 
rocks  and  monoliths  and  medlar-trees,  where  lay 
Pango  Doom's  men. 

He  ran  with  all  his  might,  and  presently  he  was 
inside  the  huge  defence.  There  was  no  living 
being  to  be  seen;  only  the  rock-strewn  plain  and 
the  woods  beyond. 

He  called  aloud,  but  nothing  answered;  he 
called  again  the  tribe-call  of  Pango  Dooni's  men, 
and  a  hundred  armed  men  sprang  up. 

"I  am  a  brother-in-blood  of  Pango  Dooni's 
son,"  said  he.  " Tang-a-Dahit  rides  for  his  life  to 
the  Bar  of  Balmud.  Ride  forth  if  ye  would  save 
him." 

"The  lad  speaks  with  the  tongue  of  a  friend," 
said  a  scowling  hillsman,  advancing,  "yet  how 
know  we  but  he  lies  ?" 

"Even  by  this,"  said  Cumner's  Son,  and  he 
spoke  the  sacred  countersign  and  showed  again 
the  bracelet  of  Pango  Dooni,  and  told  what  had 
happened.  Even  as  he  spoke  the  hillsman  gave 
the  word,  and  twoscore  men  ran  down  behind  the 
rocks,  mounted,  and  were  instantly  away  by  the 
road  that  led  to  the  Koongat  Bridge. 

The  tall  hillsman  turned  to  the  lad. 

"You  are  beaten  by  travel,"  said  he.  "Come, 
eat  and  drink,  and  rest." 

"I  have  sworn  to  breakfast  where  Pango  Dooni 
bides,  and  there  only  will  I  rest  and  eat,"  answered 
the  lad. 

25 


CUMNER'S   SON 

"The  Son  of  Pango  Dooni  knows  the  lion's  cub 
from  the  tame  dog's  whelp.  You  shall  keep  your 
word.  Though  the  sun  ride  fast  toward  noon, 
faster  shall  we  ride  in  the  Neck  of  Baroob,"  said 
the  hillsman. 

It  was  half-way  toward  noon  when  the  hoof- 
beats  drummed  over  the  Brown  Hermit's  cave, 
and  they  rested  not  there;  but  it  was  noon  and 
no  more  when  they  rode  through  Pango  Dooni 's 
gates  and  into  the  square  where  he  stood. 

The  tall  hillsman  dropped  to  the  ground,  and 
Cumner's  Son  made  to  do  the  same.  Yet  he 
staggered,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  the  hillsman 
ran  an  arm  around  his  shoulder.  The  lad  put  by 
the  arm,  and  drew  himself  up.  He  was  most  pale. 
Pango  Dooni  stood  looking  at  him  without  a 
word,  and  Cumner's  Son  doffed  his  cap.  There 
was  no  blood  in  his  lips,  and  his  face  was  white 
and  drawn. 

"Since  last  night  what  time  the  bugle  blows  in 
the  Palace  yard  I  have  ridden,"  said  he. 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the  great  chief  started. 

"The  voice  I  know,  but  not  the  face,"  said  he. 

"I  am  Cumner's  Son,"  replied  the  lad,  and  once 
more  he  spoke  the  sacred  countersign. 


rv 

BY  THE   OLD  WELL   OP  JAHAR 

To  Cumner's  Son  when  all  was  told,  Pango  Dooni 
said:  "If  my  son  be  dead  where  those  jackals 
swarm,  it  is  well  he  died  for  his  friend.  If  he  be 
living,  then  it  is  also  well.  If  he  be  saved,  we 
will  march  to  Mandakan,  with  all  our  men,  he  and 
I,  and  it  shall  be  as  Cumner  wills,  if  I  stay  in 
Mandakan  or  if  I  return  to  my  hills." 

"My  father  said  in  the  council-room,  'Better 
the  strong  robber  than  the  weak  coward,'  and  my 
father  never  lied,"  said  the  lad,  dauntlessly.  The 
strong,  tall  chief,  with  the  dark  face  and  fierce 
eyes,  roused  in  him  the  regard  of  youth  for  strong 
manhood. 

"A  hundred  years  ago  they  stole  from  my 
fathers  the  State  of  Mandakan,"  answered  the 
chief,  "and  all  that  is  here  and  all  that  is  there  is 
mine.  If  I  drive  the  kine  of  thieves  from  the 
plains  to  my  hills,  the  cattle  were  mine  ere  I  drove 
them.  If  I  harry  the  rich  in  the  midst  of  the 
Dakoon's  men,  it  is  gaining  my  own  over  naked 
swords.  If  I  save  your  tribe  and  Cumner's  men 
from  the  half-bred  jackal  Boonda  Broke,  and 

27 


CUMNER'S    SON 

hoist  your  flag  on  the  Palace  wall,  it  is  only  I  who 
should  do  it." 

Then  he  took  the  lad  inside  the  house,  with  the 
great  wooden  pillars  and  the  high  gates,  and  the 
dark  windows  all  barred  up  and  down  with  iron, 
and  he  led  him  to  a  court-yard  where  was  a  pool 
of  clear  water.  He  made  him  bathe  in  it,  and 
dark-skinned  natives  brought  him  bread  dipped 
in  wine,  and  when  he  had  eaten  they  laid  him  on 
skins  and  rubbed  him  dry,  and  rolled  him  in  soft 
linen,  and  he  drank  the  coffee  they  gave  him, 
and  they  sat  by  and  fanned  him  until  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  red  birds  on  the  window-sill  sang  through 
his  sleep  into  his  dreams.  In  his  dreams  he 
thought  he  was  in  the  Dakoon's  Palace  at  Manda- 
kan  with  a  thousand  men  before  him,  and  three 
men  came  forward  and  gave  him  a  sword.  And  a 
bird  came  flying  through  the  great  chambers  and 
hung  over  him,  singing  in  a  voice  that  he  under- 
stood, and  he  spoke  to  the  three  and  to  the 
thousand,  in  the  words  of  the  bird,  and  said: 

"It  is  fighting,  and  fighting  for  honor  and  glory 
and  houses  and  kine,  but  naught  for  love,  and 
naught  that  there  may  be  peace." 

And  the  men  said  in  reply:  "It  is  all  for  love 
and  it  is  all  for  peace,"  and  they  still  held  out  the 
sword  to  him.  And  he  took  it  and  buckled  it  to 
his  side,  and  the  bird,  flying  away  out  of  the  great 
window  of  the  chamber,  sang,  "Peace!  Peace! 

28 


CUMNER'S    SON 

Peace!"  And  Pango  Dooni's  Son,  standing  by 
with  a  shining  face,  said,  "Peace!  Peace!"  and  the 
great  Cumner  said,  "  Peace!"  and  a  woman's  voice, 
not  louder  than  a  bee's,  but  clear  above  all  others, 
said,  "Peace!" 

He  awoke,  and  knew  it  was  a  dream ;  and  there 
beside  him  stood  Pango  Dooni,  in  his  dress  of 
scarlet  and  gold  and  brown,  his  broadsword 
buckled  on,  a  kris  at  his  belt,  and  a  rich  jewel  in 
his  cap. 

"Ten  of  my  captains  and  three  of  my  kinsmen 
are  come  to  break  bread  with  Cumner 's  Son," 
said  he.  "They  would  hear  the  tale  of  our  kins- 
men who  died  against  the  Palace  wall,  by  the 
will  of  the  sick  Dakoon." 

The  lad  sprang  to  his  feet  fresh  and  well,  the 
linen  and  skins  falling  away  from  his  lithe,  clean 
body  and  limbs,  and  he  took  from  the  slaves  his 
clothes.  The  eye  of  the  chief  ran  up  and  down 
his  form,  from  his  keen  blue  eyes  to  his  small 
strong  ankle. 

" It  is  the  body  of  a  perfect  man, ' '  said  he.  "In 
the  days  when  our  State  was  powerful  and  great, 
when  men  and  not  dogs  ruled  at  Mandakan,  no 
man  might  be  Dakoon  save  him  who  was  clear 
of  mote  or  beam;  of  true  bone  and  body,  like 
a  high-bred  yearling  got  from  a  perfect  stud. 
But  two  such  are  there  that  I  have  seen  in  Man- 
dakan to-day,  and  they  are  thyself  and  mine  own 
son." 

29 


CUMNER'S    SON 

The  lad  laughed.  "I  have  eaten  good  meat," 
said  he,  "and  I  have  no  muddy  blood." 

When  they  came  to  the  dining-hall,  the  lad  at 
first  was  abashed,  for  twenty  men  stood  up  to 
meet  him,  and  each  held  out  his  hand  and  spoke 
the  vow  of  a  brother-in-blood,  for  the  ride  he  had 
made  and  his  honest  face  together  acted  on  them. 
Moreover,  whom  the  head  of  their  clan  honored 
they  also  willed  to  honor.  They  were  tall,  bar- 
baric-looking men,  and  some  had  a  truculent  look, 
but  most  were  of  a  daring  open  manner,  and  care- 
less in  speech  and  gay  at  heart. 

Cumner's  Son  told  them  of  his  ride  and  of 
Tang-a-Dahit,  and,  at  last,  of  the  men  of  their 
tribe  who  died  by  the  Palace  wall.  With  one 
accord  they  rose  in  their  places  and  swore  over 
bread  and  a  drop  of  blood  of  their  chief  that  they 
would  not  sheathe  their  swords  again  till  a  thou- 
sand of  Boonda  Broke's  and  the  Dakoon's  men  lay 
where  their  own  kinsmen  had  fallen.  If  it  chanced 
that  Tang-a-Dahit  was  dead,  then  they  would 
never  rest  until  Boonda  Broke  and  all  his  clan 
were  blotted  out.  Only  Pango  Dooni  himself  was 
silent,  for  he  was  thinking  much  of  what  should  be 
done  at  Mandakan. 

They  came  out  upon  the  plateau  where  the 
fortress  stood,  and  five  hundred  mounted  men 
marched  past,  with  naked  swords  and  bare  krises 
in  their  belts,  and  then  wheeled  suddenly  and 
stood  still,  and  shot  their  swords  up  into  the  air 
the  full  length  of  the  arm,  and  called  the  battle 

30 


CUMNER'S    SON 

call  of  their  tribe.  The  chief  looked  on  unmoved, 
save  once  when  a  tall  trooper  rode  near  him.  He 
suddenly  called  this  man  forth. 

"Where  hast  thou  been,  brother?"  he  asked. 

"Three  days  was  I  beyond  the  Bar  of  Balmud, 
searching  for  the  dog  who  robbed  my  mother; 
three  days  did  I  ride  to  keep  my  word  with  a  foe, 
who  gave  me  his  horse  when  we  were  both  unarm- 
ed and  spent,  and  with  broken  weapons  could 
fight  no  more;  and  two  days  did  I  ride  to  be  by 
a  woman's  side  when  her  great  sickness  should 
come  upon  her.  This  is  all,  my  lord,  since  I  went 
forth,  save  this  jewel  which  I  plucked  from  the  cap 
of  a  gentleman  from  the  Palace.  It  was  toll  he 
paid  even  at  the  gates  of  Mandakan." 

"Didst  thou  do  all  that  thou  didst  promise?" 

"All,  my  lord." 

' '  Even  to  the  woman  ? ' '  The  chief's  eye  burned 
upon  the  man. 

"A  strong  male  child  is  come  into  the  world  to 
serve  my  lord,"  said  the  trooper,  and  he  bowed 
his  head. 

"The  jewel  is  thine  and  not  mine,  brother," 
said  the  chief,  softly,  and  the  fierceness  of  his  eyes 
abated;  "but  I  will  take  the  child." 

The  trooper  drew  back  among  his  fellows,  and 
the  columns  rode  toward  the  farther  end  of  the 
plateau.  Then  all  at  once  the  horses  plunged 
into  a  wild  gallop,  and  the  hillsmen  came  thunder- 
ing down  toward  the  chief  and  Cumner's  Son, 
with  swords  waving  and  cutting  to  right  and  left, 

3  31 


CUMNER'S   SON 

calling  aloud,  their  teeth  showing,  death  and  valor 
in  their  eyes.  The  chief  glanced  at  Cumner's  Son. 
The  horses  were  not  twenty  feet  from  the  lad,  but 
he  did  not  stir  a  muscle.  They  were  not  ten  feet 
from  him,  and  the  swords  flashed  before  his  eyes, 
but  still  he  did  not  stir  a  hair's-breadth.  In 
response  to  a  cry  the  horses  stopped  in  full  career, 
not  more  than  three  feet  from  him.  Reaching 
out  he  could  have  stroked  the  flaming  nostril  of 
the  stallion  nearest  him. 

Pango  Dooni  took  from  his  side  a  short  gold- 
handled  sword  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"A  hundred  years  ago,"  said  he,  "it  hung  in  the 
belt  of  the  Dakoon  of  Mandakan;  it  will  hang  as 
well  in  thine."  Then  he  added,  for  he  saw  a 
strange  look  in  the  lad's  eyes:  "The  father  of  my 
father's  father  wore  it  in  the  Palace,  and  it  has 
come  from  his  breed  to  me,  and  it  shall  go  from 
me  to  thee,  and  from  thee  to  thy  breed,  if  thou 
wilt  honor  me." 

The  lad  stuck  it  in  his  belt  with  pride,  and 
taking  from  his  pocket  a  silver-mounted  pistol, 
said: 

"This  was  the  gift  of  a  righting  chief  to  a 
fighting  chief  when  they  met  in  a  beleaguered 
town,  with  spoil,  and  blood,  and  misery,  and  sick 
women  and  children  round  them ;  and  it  goes  to  a 
strong  man,  if  he  will  take  the  gift  of  a  lad." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  cry  from  beyond 
the  troopers,  and  it  was  answered  from  among 
them  by  a  kinsman  of  Pango  Dooni,  and  presently, 

32 


CUMNER'S    SON 

the  troopers  parting,  down  the  line  came  Tang-a- 
Dahit,  with  bandaged  head  and  arm. 

In  greeting,  Pango  Dooni  raised  the  pistol 
which  Cumner's  Son  had  given  him  and  fired  it 
into  the  air.  Straightway  five  hundred  men  did 
the  same. 

Dismounting,  Tang-a-Dahit  stood  before  his 
father. 

"Have  the  Dakoon's  vermin  fastened  on  the 
young  bull  at  last?"  asked  Pango  Dooni,  his  eyes 
glowering. 

"They  crawled  and  fastened,  but  they  have  not 
fed,"  answered  Tang-a-Dahit  in  a  strong  voice, 
for  his  wounds  had  not  sunk  deep.  "By  the  Old 
Well  of  Jahar,  which  has  one  side  to  the  mountain 
wall  and  one  to  the  cliff  edge,  I  halted  and  took 
my  stand.  The  mare  and  the  sorrel  of  Cumner's 
Son  I  put  inside  the  house  that  covers  the  well, 
and  I  lifted  two  stones  from  the  floor  and  set  them 
against  the  entrance.  A  beggar  lay  dead  beside 
the  well,  and  his  dog  licked  his  body.  I  killed 
the  cur,  for,  following  its  master,  it  would  have 
peace,  and  peace  is  more  than  life.  Then,  with 
the  pole  of  the  water-pail,  I  threw  the  dead  dog 
across  the  entrance  upon  the  paving-stones,  for 
these  vermin  of  plainsmen  will  not  pass  where 
a  dead  dog  lies,  as  my  father  knows  well.  They 
came  not  by  the  entrance,  but  they  swarmed  else- 
where, as  ants  swarm  upon  a  sandhill,  upon  the 
roofs,  and  at  the  little  window  where  the  lamp 
burns, 

33 


CUMNER'S   SON 

"I  drove  them  from  the  window  and  killed  them 
through  the  doorway,  but  they  were  forty  to  one. 
In  the  end  the  pest  would  have  carried  me  to 
death  as  a  jackal  carries  the  broken  meats  to  his 
den  if  our  hillsmen  had  not  come.  For  an  hour 
I  fought,  and  five  of  them  I  killed  and  seven 
wounded,  and  then  at  the  shouts  of  our  hillsmen 
they  fled  at  last.  Nine  of  them  fell  by  the  hands 
of  our  people.  Thrice  was  I  wounded,  but  my 
wounds  are  no  deeper  than  the  scratches  of  a 
tiger's  cub." 

"Had'st  thou  fought  for  thyself  the  deed  were 
good,"  said  Pango  Dooni,  "but  thy  blood  was 
shed  for  another,  and  that  is  the  pride  of  good 
men.  We  have  true  men  here;  but  thou  art  a 
true  chief,  and  this  shalt  thou  wear." 

He  took  the  rich  belt  from  his  waist,  and  fasten- 
ed it  round  the  waist  of  his  son. 

"Cumner's  Son  carries  the  sword  that  hung  in 
the  belt.  We  are  for  war,  and  the  sword  should 
be  out  of  the  belt.  When  we  are  at  peace  again 
ye  shall  put  the  sword  in  the  belt  once  more,  and 
hang  it  upon  the  wall  of  the  Palace  at  Mandakan, 
even  as  ye  who  are  brothers  shall  never  part." 

Two  hours  Tang-a-Dahit  rested  upon  the  skins 
by  the  bathing-pool,  and  an  hour  did  the  slaves 
knead  him  and  rub  him  with  oil,  and  give  him 
food  and  drink;  and  while  yet  the  sun  was  half- 
way down  the  sky,  they  poured  through  the  Neck 
of  Baroob,  over  five  hundred  fighting  men,  on 
horses  that  would  kneel  and  hide  like  dogs,  and 

34 


CUMNER'S    SON 

spring  like  deer,  and  that  knew  each  tone  of  their 
masters'  voices.  By  the  Bar  of  Balmud  they 
gathered  another  fifty  hillsmen,  and  again  half-way 
beyond  the  Old  Well  of  Jahar  they  met  twoscore 
more,  who  had  hunted  Boonda  Broke's  men,  and 
these  moved  into  column.  So  that  when  they 
came  to  Koongat  Bridge,  in  the  country  infested 
by  the  men  of  the  Dakoon,  seven  hundred  stalwart 
and  fearless  men  rode  behind  Pango  Dooni. 
From  the  Neck  of  Baroob  to  Koongat  Bridge  no 
man  stayed  them,  but  they  galloped  on  silently, 
swiftly,  passing  through  the  night  like  a  cloud, 
upon  which  the  dwellers  by  the  wayside  gazed  in 
wonder  and  in  fear. 

At  Koongat  Bridge  they  rested  for  two  hours, 
and  drank  coffee,  and  broke  bread,  and  Cumner's 
Son  slept  by  the  side  of  Tang-a-Dahit,  as  brothers 
sleep  by  their  mother's  bed.  And  Pango  Dooni 
sat  on  the  ground  near  them  and  pondered,  and 
no  man  broke  his  meditation.  When  the  two 
hours  were  gone,  they  mounted  again  and  rode 
on  through  the  dark  villages  toward  Mandakan. 

It  was  just  at  the  close  of  the  hour  before  dawn 
that  the  squad  of  troopers  who  rode  a  dozen  rods 
before  the  columns,  heard  a  cry  from  the  dark 
ahead. 

"Halt — in  the  name  of  the  Dakoon!" 


CHOOSE    YE    WHOM    YE    WILL    SERVE 

THE  company  drew  rein.  All  they  could  see 
in  the  darkness  was  a  single  mounted  figure  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  The  horseman  rode  nearer. 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  the  leader  of  the  com- 
pany. 

"I  keep  the  road  for  the  Dakoon,  for  it  is  said 
that  Cumner's  Son  has  ridden  to  the  Neck  of 
Baroob  to  bring  Pango  Dooni  down." 

By  this  time  the  chief  and  his  men  had  ridden  up. 

The  horseman  recognized  the  robber  chief,  and 
raised  his  voice. 

"Two  hundred  of  us  rode  out  to  face  Pango 
Dooni  in  this  road.  We  had  not  come  a  mile  from 
the  Palace  when  we  fell  into  an  ambush,  even  two 
thousand  men  led  by  Boonda  Broke,  who  would 
steal  the  roof  and  bed  of  the  Dakoon  before  his 
death.  For  an  hour  we  fought,  but  every  man 
was  cut  down  save  me." 

"And  you?"  asked  Pango  Dooni. 

"I  come  to  hold  the  road  against  Pango  Dooni, 
as  the  Dakoon  bade  me." 

Pango  Dooni  laughed.  ' '  Your  words  are  large, ' ' 
36 


CUMNER'S  SON 

said  he.     "What  could  you,  one  man,  do  against 
Pango  Dooni  and  his  hillsmen?" 

"I  cc  :ld  answer  the  Dakoon  here  or  elsewhere, 
that  I  kept  the  road  till  the  hill-wolves  dragged 
me  down." 

"We  be  the  wolves  from  the  hills,"  answered 
Pango  Dooni.  "You  would  scarce  serve  a  scrap 
of  flesh  for  one  hundred,  and  we  are  seven." 

"The  wolves  must  rend  me  first,"  answered  the 
man,  and  he  spat  upon  the  ground  at  Pango 
Doom's  feet. 

A  dozen  men  started  forward,  but  the  chief 
called  them  back. 

"You  are  no  coward,  but  a  fool,"  said  he  to 
the  horseman.  "Which  is  it  better:  to  die,  or 
to  turn  with  us  and  save  Cumner  and  the  English, 
and  serve  Pango  Dooni  in  the  Dakoon's  Palace?" 

' '  No  man  knows  that  he  must  die  till  the  stroke 
falls,  and  I  come  to  fight  and  not  to  serve  a  robber 
mountaineer." 

Pango  Dooni 's  eyes  blazed  with  anger.  "There 
shall  be  no  fighting,  but  a  yelping  cur  shall  be 
hung  to  a  tree,"  said  he. 

He  was  about  to  send  his  men  upon  the  stubborn 
horseman  when  the  fellow  said : 

"If  you  be  a  man  you  will  give  me  a  man  to 
fight.  We  were  two  hundred.  If  it  chance  that 
one  of  a  company  shall  do  as  the  Dakoon  hath  said, 
then  is  all  the  company  absolved ;  and  beyond  the 
mists  we  can  meet  the  Dakoon  with  open  eyes  and 
unafraid  when  he  saith,  'Did  ye  keep  your  faith  ? ' ' 

37 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"By  the  word  of  a  hillsman,  but  thou  shalt 
have  thy  will,"  said  the  chief.  "We  are  seven 
hundred  men — choose  whom  to  fight." 

"The  oldest  or  the  youngest,"  answered  the 
man,  "Pango  Dooni  or  Cumner's  Son." 

Before  the  chief  had  time  to  speak,  Cumner's 
Son  struck  the  man  with  the  flat  of  his  sword 
across  the  breast. 

The  man  did  not  lift  his  arm,  but  looked  at  the 
lad  steadily  for  a  moment.  ' ' Let  us  speak  together 
before  we  fight,"  said  he,  and  to  show  his  good 
faith  he  threw  down  his  sword. 

"Speak,"  said  Cumner's  Son,  and  laid  his  sword 
across  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 

"Does  a  man  when  he  dies  speak  his  heart  to 
the  ears  of  a  whole  tribe?" 

"Then  choose  another  ear  than  mine,"  said 
Cumner's  Son.  "In  war  I  have  no  secrets  from 
my  friends." 

A  look  of  satisfaction  came  into  Pango  Dooni's 
face.  "Speak  with  the  man  alone,"  said  he,  and 
he  drew  back. 

Cumner's  Son  drew  a  little  to  one  side  with  the 
man,  who  spoke  quickly  and  low  in  English. 

"I  have  spoken  the  truth,"  said  he.  "I  am 
Cuchnan  Di" — he  drew  himself  up — "and  once  I 
had  a  city  of  my  own  and  five  thousand  men, 
but  a  plague  and  then  a  war  came,  and  the  Dakoon 
entered  upon  my  city.  I  left  my  people  and  hid, 
and  changed  myself  that  no  one  should  know  me, 
and  I  came  to  Mandakan.  It  was  noised  abroad 

38 


CUMNER'S  SON 

that  I  was  dead.  Little  by  little  I  grew  in  favor 
with  the  Dakoon,  and  little  by  little  I  gathered 
strong  men  about  me — two  hundred  in  all  at  last. 
It  was  my  purpose,  when  the  day  seemed  ripe,  to 
seize  upon  the  Palace  as  the  Dakoon  had  seized 
upon  my  little  city.  I  knew  from  my  father, 
whose  father  built  a  new  portion  of  the  Palace, 
of  a  secret  way  by  the  Aqueduct  of  the  Failing 
Fountain,  even  into  the  Palace  itself.  An  army 
could  ride  through  and  appear  in  the  Palace  yard 
like  the  mist-shapes  from  the  lost  legions.  When 
I  had  a  thousand  men  I  would  perform  this 
thing,  I  thought. 

"But  day  by  day  the  Dakoon  drew  me  to  him, 
and  the  thing  seemed  hard  to  do,  even  now  before 
I  had  the  men.  Then  his  sickness  came,  and  I 
could  not  strike  an  ailing  man.  When  I  saw  how 
he  was  beset  by  traitors,  in  my  heart  I  swore  that 
he  should  not  suffer  by  my  hands.  I  heard  of 
your  riding  to  the  Neck  of  Baroob — the  men  of 
Boonda  Broke  brought  word.  So  I  told  the 
Dakoon,  and  I  told  him  also  that  Boonda  Broke 
was  ready  to  steal  into  his  Palace  even  before  he 
died.  He  started  up,  and  new  life  seemed  given 
him.  Calling  his  servants,  he  clothed  himself,  and 
he  came  forth  and  ordered  out  his  troops.  He 
bade  me  take  my  men  to  keep  the  road  against 
Pango  Dooni.  Then  he  ranged  his  men  before  the 
Palace,  and  scattered  them  at  points  in  the  city 
to  resist  Boonda  Broke. 

"So  I  rode  forth,  but  I  came  first  to  my  daugh- 
39 


CUMNER'S  SON 

ter's  bedside.  She  lies  in  a  little  house  not  a 
stone's-throw  from  the  Palace,  and  near  to  the 
Aqueduct  of  the  Failing  Fountain.  Once  she  was 
beautiful  and  tall  and  straight  as  a  bamboo  stem, 
but  now  she  is  in  body  no  more  than  a  piece  of 
silken  thread.  Yet  her  face  is  like  the  evening 
sky  after  a  rain.  She  is  much  alone,  and  only  in 
the  early  mornings  may  I  see  her.  She  is  cared 
for  by  an  old  woman  of  our  people,  and  there  she 
bides,  and  thinks  strange  thoughts,  and  speaks 
words  of  wisdom. 

"When  I  told  her  what  the  Dakoon  bade  me  do, 
and  what  I  had  sworn  to  perform  when  the 
Dakoon  was  dead,  she  said: 

'"But  no.  Go  forth  as  the  Dakoon  hath 
bidden.  Stand  in  the  road  and  oppose  the  hills- 
men.  If  Cumner's  Son  be  with  them,  thou  shalt 
tell  him  all.  If  he  speak  for  the  hillsmen  and  say 
that  all  shall  be  well  with  thee,  and  thy  city  be 
restored  when  Pango  Dooni  sits  in  the  Palace  of 
the  Dakoon,  then  shalt  thou  join  with  them, 
that  there  may  be  peace  in  the  land,  for  Pango 
Dooni  and  the  son  of  Pango  Dooni  be  brave  strong 
men.  But  if  he  will  not  promise  for  the  hills- 
men,  then  shalt  thou  keep  the  secret  of  the  Pal- 
ace, and  abide  the  will  of  God.'" 

"Dost  thou  know  Pango  Dooni's  son?"  asked 
the  lad,  for  he  was  sure  that  this  man's  daughter 
was  she  of  whom  Tang-a-Dahit  had  spoken. 

"Once  when  I  was  in  my  own  city  and  in  my 
Palace  I  saw  him.  Then  my  daughter  was 

40 


CUMMER'S  SON 

beautiful,  and  her  body  was  like  a  swaying  wand 
of  the  boolda-tree.  But  my  city  passed,  and  she 
was  broken  like  a  trailing  vine,  and  the  young 
man  came  no  more." 

"But  if  he  came  again  now?" 

"He  would  not  come." 

' '  But  if  he  had  come  while  she  lay  there  like  a 
trailing  vine,  and  listened  to  her  voice,  and 
thought  upon  her  words  and  loved  her  still.  If 
for  her  sake  he  came  secretly,  daring  death, 
wouldst  thou  stand — " 

The  man's  eyes  lighted.  "If  there  were  such 
truth  in  any  man,"  he  interrupted,  "I  would 
fight,  follow  him,  and  serve  him,  and  my  city 
should  be  his  city,  and  the  knowledge  of  my  heart 
be  open  to  his  eye." 

Cumner's  Son  turned  and  called  to  Pango  Dooni 
and  his  son,  and  they  came  forward.  Swiftly  he 
told  them  all.  When  he  had  done  so  the  man 
sprang  from  his  horse,  and  taking  off  the  thin 
necklet  of  beaten  gold  he  wore  round  his  throat, 
without  a  word  he  offered  it  to  Tang-a-Dahit, 
and  Tang-a-Dahit  kissed  him  on  the  cheek  and 
gave  him  the  thick,  loose  chain  of  gold  he  wore. 

"For  this  was  it  you  risked  your  life  going  to 
Mandakan,"  said  Pango  Dooni,  angrily,  to  his  son; 
"for  a  maid  with  a  body  like  a  withered  gourd." 
Then  all  at  once,  with  a  new  look  in  his  face,  he 
continued,  softly,  "Thou  hast  the  soul  of  a  woman, 
but  thy  deeds  are  the  deeds  of  a  man.  As  thy 
mother  was  in  heart  so  art  thou." 

41 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Day  was  breaking  over  Mandakan,  and  all  the 
city  was  a  tender  pink.  Tower  and  minaret  were 
like  inverted  cups  of  ruddy  gold,  and  the  streets 
all  velvet  dust,  as  Pango  Dooni,  guided  by  Cushnan 
Di,  halted  at  the  wood  of  wild  peaches,  and  a 
great  thicket  near  to  the  Aqueduct  of  the  Failing 
Fountain,  and  looked  out  toward  the  Palace  of 
the  Dakoon.  It  was  the  time  of  peach-blossoms, 
and  all  through  the  city  the  pink  and  white  petals 
fell  like  the  gray  crystals  of  a  dissolving  sunrise. 
Yet  there  rose  from  the  midst  of  it  a  long,  rumbling, 
intermittent  murmur,  and  here  and  there  marched 
columns  of  men  in  good  order,  while  again  dis- 
orderly bands  ran  hither  and  thither  with  krises 
waving  in  the  sun,  and  the  red  turban  of  war 
wound  round  their  heads. 

They  could  not  see  the  front  of  the  Palace,  nor 
yet  the  Residency  Square,  but,  even  as  they 
looked,  a  cannonade  began,  and  the  smoke  of 
the  guns  curled  through  the  showering  peach- 
trees.  Hoarse  shoutings  and  cries  came  rolling 
over  the  pink  roofs,  and  Cumner's  Son  could  hear 
through  all  the  bugle-call  of  the  artillery. 

A  moment  later  Cushnan  Di  was  leading  them 
through  a  copse  of  pawpaw-trees  to  a  secluded 
garden  by  the  Aqueduct,  overgrown  with  vines 
and  ancient  rose-trees  and  cherry-shrubs.  After 
an  hour's  labor  with  spades,  while  pickets  guarded 
all  approach,  an  opening  was  disclosed  beneath 
the  great  flagstones  of  a  ruined  building.  Here 
was  a  wide  natural  corridor  overhung  with  stalac- 

42 


CUMNER'S  SON 

tites,  and  it  led  on  into  an  artificial  passage  which 
inclined  gradually  upward  till  it  came  into  a 
mound  above  the  level  by  which  they  entered. 
Against  this  mound  was  backed  a  little  temple  in 
the  rear  of  the  Palace.  A  dozen  men  had  re- 
mained behind  to  cover  up  the  entrance  again. 
When  these  heard  Pango  Dooni  and  the  others 
in  the  Palace  yard  they  were  to  ride  straight  for 
a  gate  which  should  be  opened  to  them. 

There  was  delay  in  opening  the  stone  door 
which  led  into  the  temple,  but  at  last  they  forced 
their  way.  The  place  was  empty,  and  they  rode 
through  the  Palace  yard,  pouring  out  like  a  stream 
of  spectral  horsemen  from  the  altar  of  the  temple. 
Not  a  word  was  spoken  as  Pango  Dooni  and  his 
company  galloped  toward  the  front  of  the  Palace. 
Hundreds  of  the  Dakoon's  soldiers  and  terrified 
people  who  had  taken  refuge  in  the  great  court- 
yard ran  screaming  into  corners,  or  threw  them- 
selves in  terror  upon  the  ground.  The  walls  were 
lined  with  soldiers,  but  not  one  raised  his  hand 
to  strike — so  sudden  was  the  coming  of  the 
dreaded  hillsman.  They  knew  him  by  the  black 
flag  and  the  yellow  sunburst  upon  it. 

Presently  Pango  Dooni  gave  the  wild  battle-call 
of  his  tribe,  and  every  one  of  the  seven  hundred 
answered  him  as  they  rode  impetuously  to  the 
Palace  front.  Two  thousand  soldiers  of  the  Da- 
koon,  under  command  of  his  nephew,  Gis-yo- 
Bahim,  were  gathered  there.  They  were  making 
ready  to  march  out  and  defend  the  Palace.  When 

43 


CUMNER'S  SON 

they  saw  the  flag  and  heard  the  battle-cry  there 
was  a  movement  backward,  as  though  this  handful 
of  men  were  an  overwhelming  army  coming  at 
them.  Scattered  and  disorderly  groups  of  men 
swayed  here  and  there,  and  just  before  the  en- 
trance of  tne  Palace  was  a  wailing  group,  by  which 
stood  two  priests  with  their  yellow  robes  and  bare 
shoulders,  speaking  to  them.  From  the  walls  the 
soldiers  paused  from  resisting  the  swarming  herds 
without. 

"The  Dakoon  is  dead!"  cried  Tang-a-Dahit. 

As  if  in  response  came  the  wailing  death-cry  of 
the  women  of  the  Palace  through  the  lattice 
windows,  and  it  was  taken  up  by  the  discomfited 
crowd  before  the  Palace  door. 

"The  Lord  of  all  the  Earth,  the  great  Dakoon, 
is  dead." 

Pango  Dooni  rode  straight  upon  the  group,  who 
fled  at  his  approach,  and,  driving  the  priests 
indoors,  he  called  aloud: 

' '  The  Dakoon  is  living !     Fear  not ! " 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  reply,  and  he  waved 
his  men  into  place  before  the  Palace,  and  was  about 
to  ride  down  upon  the  native  army,  but  Cumner's 
Son  whispered  to  him,  and  an  instant  after  the 
lad  was  riding  alone  upon  the  dark  regions.  He 
reined  in  his  horse  not  ten  feet  away  from  the 
irregular  columns. 

"You  know  me,"  said  he.  "I  am  Cumner's 
Son.  I  rode  into  the  hills  at  the  Governor's  word 
to  bring  a  strong  man  to  rule  you.  Why  do  ye 

44 


CUMNER'S  SON 

stand  here  idle?  My  father,  your  friend,  fights 
with  a  hundred  men  at  the  Residency.  Choose 
ye  between  Boonda  Broke,  the  mongrel,  and 
Pango  Dooni,  the  great  hillsman.  If  ye  choose 
Boonda  Broke,  then  shall  your  city  be  levelled 
to  the  sea,  and  ye  shall  lose  your  name  as  a  people. 
Choose!" 

One  or  two  voices  cried  out;  then  from  the 
people,  and  presently  from  the  whole  dark  bat- 
talions, came  the  cry: 

"Long  live  Pango  Dooni!" 

Pango  Dooni  rode  down  with  Tang-a-Dahit  and 
Cushnan  Di.  He  bade  all  but  five  hundred  mount- 
ed men  to  lay  down  their  arms.  Then  he  put  over 
them  a  guard  of  near  a  hundred  of  his  own  horse- 
men. Gathering  the  men  from  the  rampart  he 
did  the  same  with  these,  reserving  only  one 
hundred  to  remain  upon  the  walls  under  guard 
of  ten  hillsmen.  Then,  taking  his  own  six  hundred 
men  and  five  hundred  of  the  Dakoon's  horsemen, 
he  bade  the  gates  to  be  opened,  and  with  Cushnan 
Di  marched  out  upon  the  town,  leaving  Tang-a- 
Dahit  and  Cumner's  Son  in  command  at  the 
Palace. 

At  least  four  thousand  besiegers  lay  before  the 
walls,  and,  far  beyond,  they  could  see  the  attack 
upon  the  Residency. 

The  gates  of  the  Palace  closed  on  the  last  of 
Pango  Dooni's  men,  and  with  a  wild  cry  they  rode 
like  a  monstrous  wave  upon  the  rebel  mob. 
There  was  no  preparation  to  resist  the  onset. 

45 


CUMNER'S  SON 

The  rush  was  like  a  storm  out  of  the  tropics,  and 
dread  of  Pango  Dooni's  name  alone  was  as  death 
among  them. 

The  hillsmen  clove  the  besiegers  through  like 
a  piece  of  pasteboard,  and  turning,  rode  back 
again  through  the  broken  ranks,  their  battle-call 
ringing  high  above  the  clash  of  steel.  Again  they 
turned  at  the  Palace  wall,  and,  gathering  impetus, 
they  rode  at  the  detached  and  battered  segments 
of  the  miserable  horde,  and  once  more  cut  them 
down,  then  furiously  galloped  toward  the  Resi- 
dency. 

They  could  hear  one  gun  firing  intermittently, 
and  the  roars  of  Boonda  Broke's  men.  They  did 
not  call  or  cry  till  within  a  few  hundred  yards  of 
the  Residency  Square.  Then  their  battle-call 
broke  forth,  and  Boonda  Broke  turned  to  see 
seven  hundred  bearing  down  on  his  ten  thou- 
sand, the  black  flag  with  the  yellow  sunburst 
over  them. 

Cumner,  the  Governor,  and  McDermot  heard 
the  cry  of  the  hillsmen,  too,  and  took  heart. 

Boonda  Broke  tried  to  divide  his  force,  so  that 
half  of  them  should  face  the  hillsmen  and  half 
the  Residency;  but  there  was  not  time  enough; 
and  his  men  fought  as  they  were  attacked,  those 
in  front  against  Pango  Dooni,  those  behind  against 
Cumner.  The  hillsmen  rode  upon  the  frenzied 
rebels,  and  were  swallowed  up  by  the  great  mass 
of  them,  so  that  they  seemed  lost.  But  slowly, 
heavily,  and  with  ferocious  hatred,  they  drove 

46 


CUMNER'S  SON 

their  hard  path  on.  A  head  and  shoulders 
dropped  out  of  sight  here  and  there;  but  the 
hillsmen  were  not  counting  their  losses  that  day, 
and  when  Pango  Dooni  at  last  came  near  to 
Boonda  Broke  the  men  he  had  lost  seemed  found 
again,  for  it  was  like  water  to  the  thirsty  the  sight 
of  this  man. 

But  suddenly  there  was  a  rush  from  the  Resi- 
dency Square,  and  thirty  men,  under  the  command 
of  Cumner,  rode  in  with  sabres  drawn. 

There  was  a  sudden  swaying  movement  of  the 
shrieking  mass  between  Boonda  Broke  and  Pango 
Dooni,  and  in  the  confusion  and  displacement 
Boonda  Broke  had  disappeared. 

Panic  and  flight  came  after,  and  the  hillsmen  and 
the  little  garrison  were  masters  of  the  field. 

"I  have  paid  the  debt  of  the  mare,"  said  Pango 
Dooni,  laughing. 

"No  debt  is  paid  till  I  see  the  face  of  my  son," 
answered  Cumner,  anxiously. 

Pango  Dooni  pointed  with  his  sword. 

"In  the  Palace  yard,"  said  he. 

"In  the  Palace  yard,  alive?"  asked  Cumner. 

Pango  Dooni  smiled.     "Let  us  go  and  see." 

Cumner  wiped  the  sweat  and  dust  and  blood 
from  his  face,  and  turned  to  McDermot. 

"Was  I  right  when  I  sent  the  lad?"  said  he, 
proudly.  "The  women  and  children  are  safe." 

4 


VI 

CONCERNING   THE    DAUGHTER   OF    CUSHNAN    DI 

THE  British  flag  flew  half-mast  from  the  Palace 
dome,  and  two  others  flew  behind  it:  one  the 
black  and  yellow  banner  of  the  hillsmen,  the  other 
the  red  and  white  pennant  of  ths  dead  Dakoon. 
In  the  Palace  yard  a  thousand  men  stood  at 
attention,  and  at  their  head  was  Cushnan  Di  with 
fifty  hillsmen.  At  the  Residency  another  thou- 
sand men  encamped,  with  a  hundred  hillsmen  and 
eighty  English,  under  the  command  of  Tang-a- 
Dahit  and  McDermot.  By  the  Fountain  of  the 
Sweet  Waters,  which  is  over  against  the  tomb 
where  the  Dakoon  should  sleep,  another  thousand 
men  were  patrolled,  with  a  hundred  hillsmen 
commanded  by  a  kinsman  of  Pango  Dooni. 
Hovering  near  were  gloomy  wistful  crowds  of 
people,  who  drew  close  to  the  mystery  of  the  House 
of  Death,  as  though  the  soul  of  a  Dakoon  were 
of  more  moment  than  those  of  the  thousand  men 
who  had  fallen  that  day.  Along  the  line  of  the 
Bazaar  ranged  another  thousand  men,  armed  only 
with  krises,  under  the  command  of  the  heir  of  the 
late  Dakoon,  and  with  these  were  a  hundred  and 

48 


CUMNER'S  SON 

fifty  mounted  hillsmen,  watchful  and  deliberate. 
These  were  also  under  the  command  of  a  kinsman 
of  Pango  Dooni. 

It  was  at  this  very  point  that  the  danger  lay, 
for  the  nephew  of  the  Dakoon,  Gis-yo-Bahim,  was 
a  weak  but  treacherous  man,  ill-fitted  to  rule;  a 
coward,  yet  ambitious,  distrusted  by  the  people,  yet 
the  heir  to  the  throne.  Cumner  and  Pango  Dooni 
had  placed  him  at  this  point  for  no  other  reason 
than  to  give  him  his  chance  for  a  blow,  if  he  dared 
to  strike  it,  at  the  most  advantageous  place  in  the 
city.  The  furtive  hangers-on,  cut -throats,  mendi- 
cants, followers  of  Boonda  Broke,  and  haters  of  the 
English,  lurked  in  the  Bazaars,  and  Gis-yo-Bahim 
should  be  tempted  for  the  first  and  the  last  time. 
Crushed  now,  he  could  never  rise  again.  Pango 
Dooni  had  carefully  picked  the  hillsmen  whom  he 
had  sent  to  the  Bazaar,  and  their  captain  was  the 
most  fearless  and  the  wariest  fighter  from  the 
Neck  of  Baroob,  save  Pango  Dooni  himself. 

Boonda  Broke  was  abroad  still.  He  had  es- 
caped from  the  slaughter  before  the  Residency, 
and  was  hidden  somewhere  in  the  city.  There 
were  yet  in  Mandakan  ten  thousand  men  who 
would  follow  him  that  would  promise  the  most, 
and  Boonda  Broke  would  promise  the  doors  of 
heaven  as  a  gift  to  the  city,  and  the  treasures  of 
Solomon  to  the  people,  if  it  might  serve  his  pur- 
poses. But  all  was  quiet  save  where  the  mourners 
followed  their  dead  to  the  great  funeral  pyres, 
which  were  set  on  three  little  hills,  just  outside 

49 


CUMNER'S  SON 

the  city.  These  wailed  as  they  passed  by.  The 
smoke  of  the  burnt  powder  had  been  carried  away 
by  a  gentle  wind,  and  in  its  place  was  the  per- 
vasive perfume  of  the  peach  and  cherry  trees, 
and  the  aroma  of  the  gugan  wood,  which  was  like 
cut  sandal  in  the  sun  after  rain.  In  the  homes 
of  a  few  rich  folk  there  was  feasting  also,  for  it 
mattered  little  to  them  whether  Boonda  Broke 
or  Pango  Dooni  ruled  in  Mandakan,  so  that  their 
wealth  was  left  to  them.  But  hundreds  of  tinkling 
little  bells  broke  the  stillness.  These  were  carried 
by  brown  bare-footed  boys,  who  ran  lightly  up 
and  down  the  streets,  calling  softly:  "Corn  and 
tears  and  wine  for  the  dead! "  It  was  the  custom 
for  mourners  to  place  in  the  hands  of  the  dead  a 
bottle  of  tears  and  wine,  and  a  seed  of  corn,  as  it 
is  written  in  the  Proverbs  of  Dol: 

"  When  thou  journeyest  into  the  Shadows,  take  not 
sweetmeats  with  thee,  but  a  seed  of  corn  and  a  bottle  of 
tears  and  wine;  that  thou  mayest  have  a  garden  in 
the  land  whither  thou  goest." 

It  was  yet  hardly  night  when  the  pyres  were 
lighted  on  the  little  hills  and  a  warm  glow  was 
thrown  over  all  the  city,  made  warmer  by  roseate- 
hued  homes  and  the  ruddy  stones  and  velvety 
dust  of  the  streets.  At  midnight  the  Dakoon  was 
to  be  brought  to  the  Tomb  with  the  Blue  Dome. 
Now  in  the  Palace  yard  his  body  lay  under  a 
canopy,  the  flags  of  Mandakan  and  England  over 
his  breast,  twenty  of  his  own  naked  body-guard 
stood  round,  and  four  of  his  high  chiefs  stood 

5° 


CUMNER'S  SON 

at  his  head  and  four  at  his  feet,  and  little  lads 
ran  softly  past,  crying,  "Corn  and  tears  and  wine 
for  the  dead!"  And  behind  all  these  again  were 
placed  the  dark  battalions  and  the  hillsmen.  It 
went  abroad  through  the  city  that  Pango  Dooni 
and  Cumner  paid  great  homage  to  the  dead 
Dakoon,  and  the  dread  of  the  hillsmen  grew  less. 

But  in  one  house  there  had  been  no  fear,  for 
there,  by  the  Aqueduct  of  the  Failing  Fountain, 
lived  Cushnan  Di,  a  fallen  chief,  and  his  daughter 
with  the  body  like  a  trailing  vine;  for  one  knew 
the  sorrow  of  dispossession  and  defeat  and  the 
arm  of  a  leader  of  men,  and  the  other  knew  Tang- 
a-Dahit  and  the  soul  that  was  in  him. 

This  night,  while  yet  there  was  an  hour  before 
the  body  of  the  dead  Dakoon  should  go  to  the 
Tomb  with  the  Blue  Dome,  the  daughter  of  Cush- 
nan Di  lay  watching  for  her  door  to  open;  for 
she  knew  what  had  happened  in  the  city,  and  there 
was  one  whom  her  spirit  longed  for.  An  old 
woman  sat  beside  her  with  hands  clasped  about 
her  knees. 

"Dost  thou  hear  nothing?"  said  a  voice  from 
the  bed. 

"Nothing  but  the  stir  of  the  mandrake-trees, 
beloved." 

"Nay,  but  dost  thou  not  hear  a  step?" 

"Naught,  child  of  the  heaven-flowers,  but  a 
dog's  foot  in  the  moss." 

"Thou  art  sure  that  my  father  is  safe?" 

"The  Prince  is  safe,  angel  of  the  high  clouds. 
Si 


CUMNER'S  SON 

He  led  the  hillsmen  by  the  secret  way  into  the 
Palace  yard." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  the 
girl's  voice  said  again:  "Hush!  but  there  was  a 
footstep — I  heard  a  breaking  twig!" 

Her  face  lighted,  and  the  head  slightly  turned 
toward  the  door.  But  the  body  did  not  stir.  It 
lay  moveless,  save  where  the  bosom  rose  and  fell 
softly,  quivering  under  the  white  robe.  A  great 
wolf-dog  raised  its  head  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  and 
pointed  its  ears,  looking  toward  the  door. 

The  face  of  the  girl  was  beautiful.  A  noble 
peace  was  upon  it,  and  the  eyes  were  like  lamps 
of  dusky  fire,  as  though  they  held  all  the  strength 
of  the  nerveless  body.  The  love  burning  in  them 
wa-s  not  the  love  of  a  maid  for  a  man,  but  that 
which  comes  after,  through  pain  and  trouble  and 
wisdom.  It  was  the  look  that  lasts  after  death, 
the  look  shot  forward  from  the  Hereafter  upon  a 
living  face  which  has  looked  into  the  great  mys- 
tery, but  has  not  passed  behind  the  curtains. 

There  was  a  knock  upon  the  door,  and,  in 
response  to  a  summons,  Tang-a-Dahit  stepped 
inside.  A  beautiful  smile  settled  upon  the  girl's 
face,  and  her  eyes  brooded  tenderly  upon  the 
young  hillsman. 

"I  am  here,  Mami,"  said  he. 

"Friend  of  my  heart,"  she  answered.  "It  is 
so  long!" 

Then  he  told  her  how,  through  Cumner's  Son,  he 
had  been  turned  from  his  visit  two  days  before, 

52 


CUMNER'S  SON 

and  of  the  journey  down,  and  of  the  fighting,  and 
all  that  had  chanced. 

She  smiled,  and  assented  with  her  eyes — her 
father  had  told  her.  "My  father  knows  that  thou 
dost  come  to  me,  and  he  is  not  angry,"  she  said. 

Then  she  asked  him  what  was  to  be  the  end  of 
all,  and  he  shook  his  head.  "The  young  are  not 
taken  into  counsel,"  he  answered,  "neither  I  nor 
Cumner's  Son." 

All  at  once  her  eyes  brightened  as  though  a 
current  of  light  had  been  suddenly  sent  through 
them. 

"Cumner's  Son,"  said  she — "Cumner's  Son,  and 
thou,  the  future  of  Mandakan  is  all  with  ye; 
neither  with  Cumner,  nor  with  Pango  Dooni,  nor 
with  Cushnan  Di.  To  the  old  is  given  counsel, 
and  device,  and  wisdom,  and  holding;  but  to  the 
young  is  given  hope,  and  vision,  and  action,  and 
building,  and  peace." 

"Cumner's  Son  is  without,"  said  he.  "May  I 
fetch  him  to  thee?" 

She  looked  grave,  and  shrank  a  little,  then 
answered  yes. 

"So  strong,  so  brave,  so  young!"  she  said,  al- 
most under  her  breath,  as  the  young  man  entered. 

Cumner's  Son  stood  abashed  at  first  to  see  this 
angelic  head,  so  full  of  light  and  life,  like  nothing 
he  had  ever  seen,  and  the  nerveless,  moveless 
body,  like  a  flower  with  no  roots. 

"Thou  art  brave,"  said  she,  "and  thy  heart  is 
without  fear,  for  thou  hast  no  evil  in  thee.  Great 

S3 


CUMNER'S  SON 

things  shall  come  to  thee,  and  to  thee,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Tang-a-Dahit,  "but  by  different  ways." 
Tang-a-Dahit  looked  at  her  as  one  would  look 
at  the  face  of  a  saint;  and  his  fingers,  tired  yet 
with  the  swinging  of  the  sword,  stroked  the  white 
coverlet  of  her  couch  gently  and  abstractedly. 
Once  or  twice  Cumner's  Son  tried  to  speak  but 
failed,  and  at  last  all  he  could  say  was:  "Thou 
art  good — thou  art  good ! "  and  then  he  turned  and 
stole  quietly  from  the  room. 

At  midnight  they  carried  the  Dakoon  to  the 
resting-place  of  his  fathers.  A  thousand  torches 
gleamed  from  the  Palace  gates  through  the  Street 
of  Divers  Pities,  and  along  the  Path  by  the  Bazaar 
to  the  Tomb  with  the  Blue  Dome.  A  hundred 
hillsmen  rode  before  and  a  hundred  behind,  and 
between  them  were  two  thousand  soldiers  of 
Mandakan  on  foot  and  fifty  of  the  late  Dakoon's 
body-guard  mounted  and  brilliant  in  scarlet  and 
gold.  Behind  the  gun-carriage,  which  bore  the 
body,  walked  the  nephew  of  the  great  Dakoon, 
then  came  a  clear  space,  and  then  Pango  Dooni, 
and  Cumner,  and  behind  these  twenty  men  of  the 
artillery,  at  whose  head  rode  McDermot  and 
Cumner's  Son. 

As  they  passed  the  Path  by  the  Bazaar  every 
eye  among  the  hillsmen  and  among  the  handful  of 
British  was  alert.  Suddenly  a  savage  murmuring 
among  the  natives  in  the  Bazaar  broke  into  a  loud 
snarl,  and  it  seemed  as  if  a  storm  was  about  to 

54 


CUMNER'S  SON 

break;  but  as  suddenly,  at  a  call  from  Cumner, 
the  hillsmen,  the  British,  and  a  thousand  native 
soldiers,  faced  the  Bazaar  in  perfect  silence,  their 
lances,  swords,  and  rifles  in  a  pose  of  menace. 
The  whole  procession  stood  still  for  a  moment. 
In  the  pause  the  crowds  in  the  Bazaar  drew  back, 
then  came  a  loud  voice  calling  on  them  to  rescue 
the  dead  Dakoon  from  murderers  and  infidels; 
and  a  wave  of  dark  bodies  moved  forward,  but 
suddenly  cowered  before  the  malicious  stillness 
of  the  hillsmen  and  the  British,  and  the  wave 
retreated. 

Cumner's  Son  had  recognized  the  voice,  and  his 
eye  followed  its  direction  with  a  perfect  certainty. 
Even  as  he  saw  the  figure  of  Boonda  Broke  dis- 
guised as  a  native  soldier  the  half-breed's  arm  was 
raised,  and  a  kris  flew  from  his  hands,  aimed  at  the 
heart  of  Pango  Dooni.  But  as  the  kris  flew  the 
youth  spurred  his  horse  out  of  the  ranks  and  down 
upon  the  murderer,  who  sprang  back  into  the 
Bazaar.  The  lad  fearlessly  rode  straight  into  the 
Bazaar,  and  galloped  down  upon  the  fugitive,  who 
suddenly  swung  round  to  meet  him  with  naked 
kris;  but  as  he  did  so  a  dog  ran  across  his  path, 
tripped  him  up,  and  he  half  fell.  Before  he  could 
recover  himself  a  pistol  was  at  his  head. 

' '  March ! "  said  the  lad ;  and  even  as  ten  men  of 
the  artillery  rode  through  the  crowd  to  rescue  their 
Colonel's  son,  he  marched  the  murderer  on.  But 
a  sudden  frenzy  possessed  Boonda  Broke.  He 
turned  like  lightening  on  the  lad,  and  raised  his 

55 


CUMNER'S  SON 

kris  to  throw;  but  a  bullet  was  quicker,  and  he 
leaped  into  the  air  and  fell  dead  without  a  cry, 
the  kris  dropping  from  his  hand. 

As  Cumner's  Son  came  forth  into  the  path  the 
hillsmen  and  artillery  cheered  him,  the  native 
troops  took  it  up,  and  it  was  answered  by  the 
people  in  all  the  thoroughfare. 

Pango  Dooni  had  also  seen  the  kris  thrown  at 
himself,  but  he  could  not  escape  it,  though  he  half 
swung  round.  It  struck  him  in  the  shoulder,  and 
quivered  where  it  struck,  but  he  drew  it  out  and 
threw  it  down.  A  hillsman  bound  up  the  wound, 
and  he  rode  on  to  the  tomb. 

The  Dakoon  was  placed  in  his  gorgeous  house  of 
death,  and  every  man  cried:  "Sleep,  lord  of  the 
earth! "  Then  Cumner  stood  up  in  his  saddle,  and 
cried  aloud: 

"To-morrow,  when  the  sun  stands  over  the 
gold  dome  of  the  Palace,  ye  shall  come  to  hear 
your  Dakoon  speak  in  the  hall  of  the  Heavenly 
Hours." 

No  man  knew  from  Cumner's  speech  who  was 
to  be  Dakoon,  yet  every  man  in  Mandakan  said 
in  the  quiet  of  his  home  that  night: 

"To-morrow  Pango  Dooni  will  be  Dakoon.  We 
will  be  as  the  stubble  of  the  field  before  him.  But 
Pango  Dooni  is  a  strong  man." 


VII 

THE    RED   PLAGUE 

"  He  promised  he'd  bring  me  a  basket  of  posies, 

A  garland  of  lilies,  a  garland  of  roses, 
A  little  straw  hat  to  set  off  the  blue  ribbons 
That  tie  up  my  bonnie  brown  hair." 

THIS  was  the  song  McDermot  sang  to  himself  as 
he  walked  up  the  great  court-yard  of  the  Palace, 
past  the  lattice  windows,  behind  which  the  silent 
women  of  the  late  Dakoon's  household  still  sat, 
passive  and  grief-stricken.  How  knew  they  what 
the  new  Dakoon  would  do — send  them  off  into 
the  hills,  or  kill  them? 

McDermot  was  in  a  famous  humor,  for  he  had 
just  come  from  Pango  Dooni  the  possessor  of  a 
great  secret,  and  he  had  been  paid  high  honor.  He 
looked  round  on  the  court-yard  complacently,  and 
with  an  air  of  familiarity  and  possession  which 
seemed  hardly  justified  by  his  position.  He  noted 
how  the  lattices  stirred  as  he  passed  through  this 
inner  court -yard  where  few  strangers  were  ever 
allowed  to  pass,  and  he  cocked  his  head  vain- 
gloriously.  He  smiled  at  the  lizards  hanging  on 
the  foundation  stones,  he  paused  to  dip  his  finger 

57 


CUMMER'S  SON 

in  the  basin  of  the  fountain,  he  eyed  good-humor- 
edly  the  beggars — old  pensioners  of  the  late 
Dakoon — seated  in  the  shade  with  outstretched 
hands.  One  of  them  drew  his  attention — a  slim, 
cadaverous-looking  wretch  who  still  was  superior 
to  his  fellows,  and  who  sat  apart  from  them, 
evidently  by  their  wish  as  much  as  by  his  own. 

McDermot  was  still  humming  the  song  to  him- 
self as  he  neared  the  group ;  but  he  stopped  short, 
as  he  heard  the  isolated  beggar  repeat  after  him, 
in  English: 

"  He  promised  he'd  bring  me  a  bunch  of  blue  ribbons, 
To  tie  up  my  bonnie  brown  hair." 

He  was  startled.  At  first  he  thought  it  might 
be  an  Englishman  in  disguise,  but  the  brown  of  the 
beggar's  face  was  real,  and  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  high,  narrow  forehead,  the  slim  fingers,  and 
the  sloe-black  eyes.  Yet  he  seemed  not  a  native 
of  Mandakan.  McDermot  was  about  to  ask  him 
who  he  was,  when  there  was  a  rattle  of  horse's 
hoofs,  and  Cumner's  Son  galloped  excitedly  up 
the  court-yard. 

"Captain,  captain,"  said  he,  "the  Red  Plague 
is  on  the  city!" 

McDermot  staggered  back  in  consternation. 
"No!  no!"  cried  he,  "it  is  not  so,  sir!" 

"The  man,  the  first,  lies  at  the  entrance  of  the 
Path  by  the  Bazaar.  No  one  will  pass  near  him, 
and  all  the  city  goes  mad  with  fear.  What's  to 
be  done?  What's  to  be  done?  Is  there  no  help 

58 


CUMNER'S  SON 

for  it?"  the  lad  cried  in  despair.  "I'm  going  to 
Pango  Dooni.  Where  is  he ?  In  the  Palace?" 

McDermot  shook  his  head  mournfully,  for  he 
knew  the  history  of  this  plague  the  horror  of  its 
ravages,  the  tribes  it  had  destroyed. 

The  beggar  leaned  back  against  the  cool  wall  and 
laughed.  McDermot  turned  on  him  in  his  fury, 
and  would  have  kicked  him,  but  Cumner's  Son, 
struck  by  some  astute  intelligence  in  the  man's 
look,  said: 

"What  do  you  know  of  the  Red  Plague?" 

Again  the  beggar  laughed.  "Once  I  saved  the 
city  of  Nangoon  from  the  plague,  but  they  forgot 
me,  and  when  I  complained  and  in  my  anger  went 
mad  at  the  door  of  the  Palace,  the  Rajah  drove  me 
from  the  country.  That  was  in  India,  where  I 
learned  to  speak  English;  and  here  am  I  at  the 
door  of  a  Palace  again!" 

"Can  you  save  the  city  from  the  plague?" 
asked  Cumner's  Son,  coming  closer  and  eagerly 
questioning. 

"Is  the  man  dead?"  asked  the  beggar. 

"Not  when  I  saw  him — he  had  just  been  taken." 

"Good.  The  city  may  be  saved  if — "  he  looked 
at  Cumner's  Son,  "if  thou  wilt  save  him  with  me. 
If  he  be  healed  there  is  no  danger;  it  is  the  odor 
of  death  from  the  Red  Plague  which  carries  death 
abroad." 

"Why  do  you  ask  this?"  asked  McDermot, 
nodding  toward  Cumner's  Son. 

The  beggar  shrugged  his  shoulders,  "That  he 
59 


CUMNER'S  SON 

may  not  do  with  me  as  did  the  Rajah  of  Nan- 
goon." 

"He  is  not  Dakoon,"  said  McDermot. 

"Will  the  young  man  promise  me?" 

"Promise  what?"  asked  Cumner's  Son. 

"A  mat  to  pray  on,  a  house,  a  servant,  and  a 
loaf  of  bread,  a  bowl  of  goat's  milk,  and  a  silver 
majil  every  day  till  I  die." 

"I  am  not  Dakoon,"  said  the  lad,  "but  I 
promise  for  the  Dakoon — he  will  do  this  thing  to 
save  the  city." 

"And  if  thou  shouldst  break  thy  promise?" 

"I  keep  my  promises,"  said  the  lad,  stoutly. 

' '  But  if  not,  wilt  thou  give  thy  life  to  redeem  it?" 

"Yes." 

The  beggar  laughed  again  and  rose.  "Come," 
said  he. 

"Don't  go — it's  absurd! "  said  McDermot,  laying 
a  hand  on  the  young  man's  arm.  "The  plague 
cannot  be  cured." 

"Yes,  I  will  go,"  answered  Cumner's  Son.  "I 
believe  he  speaks  the  truth.  Go  you  to  Pango 
Dooni  and  tell  him  all." 

He  spurred  his  horse  and  trotted  away,  the 
beggar  running  beside  him.  They  passed  out  of 
the  court-yard,  and  through  the  Gate  by  the 
Fountain  of  Sweet  Waters. 

They  had  not  gone  far  when  they  saw  Cumner, 
the  Governor,  and  six  men  of  the  artillery  riding 
toward  them.  The  Governor  stopped,  and  asked 
him  where  he  was  going. 

60 


CUMNER'S  SON 

The  young  man  told  him  all. 

The  Colonel  turned  pale.  "You  will  do  this 
thing!"  said  he,  dumfounded.  "Suppose  this 
rascal,"  nodding  toward  the  beggar,  "speaks  the 
truth;  and  suppose  that,  after  all,  the  sick  man 
should  die,  and — " 

"Then  the  lad  and  myself  would  be  the  first  to 
follow  him,"  interrupted  the  beggar,  "and  all 
the  multitude  would  come  after,  from  the  babe  on 
the  mat  to  the  old  man  by  the  Palace  gates.  But 
if  the  sick  man  lives — " 

The  Governor  looked  at  his  son  partly  in  ad- 
miration, partly  in  pain,  and  maybe  a  little  anger. 

"Is  there  110  one  else  ?     I  tell  you  I — " 

"There  is  no  one  else;  the  lad  or  death  for  the 
city!  I  can  believe  the  young;  the  old  have 
deceived  me,"  interposed  the  beggar  again. 

"Time  passes,"  said  Cumner's  Son,  anxiously. 
"The  man  may  die.  You  say  yes  to  my  going, 
sir?"  he  asked  his  father. 

The  Governor  frowned,  and  the  skin  of  his 
cheeks  tightened. 

"Go — go,  and  good  luck  to  you,  boy."  He 
made  as  if  to  ride  on,  but  stopped  short,  flung 
out  his  hand,  and  grasped  the  hand  of  his  son. 
"God  be  with  you,  boy,"  said  he;  then  his  jaws 
closed  tightly,  and  he  rode  on. 

It  was  easier  for  the  lad  than  for  him. 

When  he  told  the  story  to  Pango  Dooni  the 
chief  was  silent  for  a  moment;  then  he  said: 

"Until  we  know  whether  it  be  death  or  life, 
61 


CUMNER'S  SON 

whether  Cumner's  Son  save  the  city  or  lose  his 
life  for  its  sake,  we  will  not  call  the  people  together 
in  the  Hall  of  the  Heavenly  Hours.  I  will  send 
the  heralds  abroad,  if  it  be  thy  pleasure,  Cumner." 

At  noon — the  hour  when  the  people  had  been 
bidden  to  cry  "Live,  Prince  of  the  Everlasting 
Glory!" — they  were  moving  restlessly,  fearfully 
through  the  Bazaar  and  the  highways,  and  watch- 
ing from  a  distance  a  little  white  house,  with  blue 
curtains,  where  lay  the  man  who  was  sick  with 
the  Red  Plague,  and  where  watched  beside  his 
bed  Cumner's  Son  and  the  beggar  of  Nangoon. 
No  one  came  near. 

From  the  time  the  sick  man  had  been  brought 
into  the  house,  the  beggar  had  worked  with  him, 
giving  him  tinctures  which  he  boiled  with  the 
sweetmeat  called  the  Flower  of  Bambaba,  while 
Cumner's  Son  rubbed  an  ointment  into  his  body. 
Now  and  again  the  young  man  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  at  the  lines  of  people  hundreds  of 
yards  away,  and  the  empty  spaces  where  the  only 
life  that  showed  was  a  gay-plumaged  bird  that 
drifted  across  to  the  sunlight,  or  a  monkey  that 
sat  in  the  dust  eating  a  nut.  All  at  once  the  awe 
and  danger  of  his  position  fell  upon  him.  Imagin- 
ation grew  high  in  him  in  a  moment — that  begin- 
ning of  fear  and  sorrow  and  heart-burning;  yet, 
too,  the  beginning  of  hope  and  wisdom  and  achieve- 
ment. For  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  knowl- 
edge overcame  him  which  masters  us  all  some- 
times. He  had  a  desire  to  fly  the  place;  he  felt  like 

62 


CUMNER'S  SON 

running  from  the  house,  shrieking  as  he  went. 
A  sweat  broke  out  on  his  forehead,  his  lips  clung 
to  his  teeth,  his  mouth  was  dry,  his  breast  seemed 
to  contract,  and  breathing  hurt  him. 

"What  a  fool  I  was!  What  a  fool  I  was  to 
come  here!"  he  said. 

He  buried  his  head  in  his  arms  as  he  leaned 
against  the  wall,  and  his  legs  trembled.  From 
that  moment  he  passed  from  headlong,  daring, 
lovable  youth,  to  manhood;  understanding,  fear- 
ful, conscientious,  and  morally  strong.  Just  as 
abject  as  was  his  sudden  fear,  so  triumphant  was 
his  reassertion  of  himself. 

"It  was  the  only  way,"  he  said  to  himself, 
suddenly  wresting  his  head  from  his  protecting 
arms.  "There's  a  chance  of  life,  anyhow,  chance 
for  all  of  us."  He  turned  away  to  the  sick  man's 
bed,  to  see  the  beggar  watching  him  with  cold, 
passive  eyes  and  a  curious,  half-sneering  smile. 
He  braced  himself,  and  met  the  passive,  scrutiniz- 
ing looks  firmly.  The  beggar  said  nothing,  but 
motioned  to  him  to  lift  the  sick  man  upright, 
while  he  poured  some  tincture  down  his  throat, 
and  bound  the  head  and  neck  about  with  saturated 
linen. 

There  came  a  knocking  at  the  door.  The 
beggar  frowned,  but  Cumner's  Son  turned  eagerly. 
He  had  only  been  in  this  room  ten  hours,  but  it 
seemed  like  years  in  which  he  had  lived  alone — 
alone.  But  he  met  firmly  the  passive,  inquisi- 
torial eyes  of  the  healer  of  the  plague,  and  he 

5  63 


CUMNER'S  SON 

turned,  dropped  another  bar  across  the  door,  and 
bade  the  intruder  to  depart. 

"It  is  I,  Tang-a-Dahit.  Open!"  came  a  loud, 
anxious  voice. 

"You  may  not  come  in." 

"I  am  thy  brother-in-blood,  and  my  life  is 
thine." 

"Then  keep  it  safe  for  those  who  prize  it.  Go 
back  to  the  Palace." 

"I  am  not  needed  there.  My  place  is  with 
thee." 

"Go,  then,  to  the  little  house  by  the  Aqueduct." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment,  and  then  Tang- 
a-Dahit  said: 

"Wilt  thou  not  let  me  enter?" 

The  sudden  wailing  of  the  stricken  man  drowned 
Tang-a-Dahit's  words,  and  without  a  word  Cum- 
ner's  Son  turned  again  to  the  victim  of  the  Red 
Plague. 

All  day  the  people  watched  from  afar,  and  all 
day  long  soldiers  and  hillsmen  drew  a  wide  cordon 
of  quarantine  round  the  house.  Terror  seized  the 
people  when  the  sun  went  down,  and  to  the 
watchers  the  suspense  grew.  Ceaseless,  alert, 
silent,  they  had  watched  and  waited,  and  at  last 
the  beggar  knelt  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  sleeper, 
and  did  not  stir.  A  little  way  off  from  him  stood 
Cumner's  Son — patient,  pale,  worn,  older  by  ten 
years  than  he  was  three  days  before. 

In  the  city  dismay  and  misery  ruled.  Boonda 
Broke  and  the  dead  Dakoon  were  forgotten.  The 

64 


CUMNER'S  SON 

people  were  in  the  presence  of  a  monster  which 
could  sweep  them  from  their  homes  as  a  hail- 
storm scatters  the  hanging  nests  of  wild  bees. 
In  a  thousand  homes  little  red  lights  of  propitia- 
tion were  shining,  and  the  sweet  boolda  wood  was 
burning  at  a  thousand  shrines.  Midnight  came, 
then  the  long,  lethargic  hours  after;  then  that 
moment  when  all  cattle  of  the  field  and  beasts  of 
the  forest  wake  and  stand  upon  their  feet,  and 
lie  down  again,  and  the  cocks  crow,  and  the  birds 
flutter  their  wings,  and  all  resign  themselves  to 
sleep  once  more.  It  was  in  this  hour  that  the 
sick  man  opened  his  eyes  and  raised  his  head,  as 
though  the  mysterious  influence  of  primitive  life 
were  rousing  him.  He  said  nothing  and  did 
nothing,  but  lay  back  and  drew  in  a  long,  good 
breath  of  air,  and  afterward  fell  asleep. 

The  beggar  got  to  his  feet.  "The  man  is  safe," 
said  he. 

"I  will  go  and  tell  them,"  said  Cumner's  Son, 
gladly,  and  he  made  as  if  to  open  the  door. 

"Not  till  dawn,"  commanded  the  beggar. 
"Let  them  suffer  for  their  sins.  We  hold  the 
knowledge  of  life  and  death  in  our  hands." 

"But  my  father,  and  Tang-a-Dahit,  and  Pango 
Dooni." 

"Are  they  without  sin?"  asked  the  beggar, 
scornfully.  "At  dawn,  only  at  dawn!" 

So  they  sat  and  waited  till  dawn.  And  when 
the  sun  was  well  risen,  the  beggar  threw  wide 
open  the  door  of  the  house,  and  called  aloud  to 

65 


CUMNER'S  SON 

the  horsemen  far  off,  and  Cumner's  Son  waved 
with  his  hand;  and  McDermot  came  galloping  to 
them.  He  jumped  from  his  horse  and  wrung  the 
boy's  hand,  then  that  of  the  beggar,  then  talked 
in  broken  sentences,  which  were  spattered  with 
the  tears  in  his  throat.  He  told  Cumner's  Son 
that  his  face  was  as  that  of  one  who  had  lain  in  a 
grave,  and  he  called  aloud  in  a  blustering  voice, 
and  beckoned  for  troopers  to  come.  The  whole 
line  moved  down  on  them — horsemen  and  soldiers 
and  people. 

The  city  was  saved  from  the  Red  Plague,  and 
the  people,  gone  mad  with  joy,  would  have  carried 
Cumner's  Son  to  the  Palace  on  their  shoulders, 
but  he  walked  beside  the  beggar  to  his  father's 
house,  hillsmen  in  front  and  English  soldiers 
behind;  and  wasted  and  ghostly,  from  riding  and 
fighting  and  watching,  he  threw  himself  upon  the 
bed  in  his  own  room,  and  passed,  as  an  eyelid 
blinks,  into  a  deep  sleep. 

But  the  beggar  sat  down  on  a  mat  with  a  loaf 
of  bread,  a  bowl  of  goat's  milk,  and  a  long  cigar 
which  McDermot  gave  him,  and  he  received  idly 
all  who  came,  even  to  the  sick  man,  who  ere  the 
day  was  done  was  brought  to  the  Residency, 
and,  out  of  danger  and  in  his  right  mind,  lay  in 
the  shade  of  a  banyan-tree  thinking  of  nothing 
save  the  joy  of  living. 


VIII 

THE  CHOOSING  OF  THE  DAKOON 

IT  was  noon  again.  In  the  Hall  of  the  Heavenly 
Hours  all  the  chiefs  and  great  people  of  the  land 
were  gathered,  and  in  the  Palace  yard  without 
were  thousands  of  the  people  of  the  Bazaars  and 
the  one-storied  houses.  The  Bazaars  were  almost 
empty,  the  streets  deserted.  Yet  silken  banners 
of  gorgeous  colors  flew  above  the  pink  terraces,  and 
the  call  of  the  silver  horn  of  Mandakan,  which 
was  made  first  when  Tubal  Cain  was  young,  rang 
through  the  long,  vacant  avenues.  A  few  hundred 
native  troops  and  a  handful  of  hillsmen  rode  up 
and  down,  and  at  the  Residency  fifty  men  kept 
guard  under  command  of  Sergeant  Doolan  of  the 
artillery — his  superior  officers  and  the  rest  of  his 
comrades  were  at  the  Palace. 

In  the  shade  of  a  banyan-tree  sat  the  recovered 
victim  of  the  Red  Plague  and  the  beggar  of 
Nangoon,  playing  a  game  of  chuck-farthing, 
taught  them  by  Sergeant  Doolan,  a  bowl  of  milk 
and  a  calabash  of  rice  beside  them,  and  cigarettes 
in  their  mouths.  The  beggar  had  a  new  turban 
and  robe,  and  he  sat  on  a  mat  which  came  from 
the  Palace. 

67 


CUMNER'S  SON 

He  had  gone  to  the  Palace  that  morning  as 
Colonel  Cumner  had  commanded,  that  he  might 
receive  the  thanks  of  the  Dakoon  from  the  people 
of  Mandakan ;  but  he  had  tired  of  the  great  place, 
and  had  come  back  to  play  at  chuck-farthing. 
Already  he  had  won  everything  the  other  pos- 
sessed, and  was  now  playing  for  his  dinner.  He 
was  still  chuckling  over  his  victory  when  an 
orderly  and  two  troopers  arrived  with  a  riderless 
horse,  bearing  the  command  of  Colonel  Cumner 
for  the  beggar  to  appear  at  once  at  the  Palace. 
The  beggar  looked  doubtfully  at  the  orderly  a 
moment,  then  rose  with  an  air  of  lassitude  and 
languidly  mounted  the  horse.  Before  he  had  got 
half-way  to  the  Palace  he  suddenly  slid  from  the 
horse  and  said: 

"Why  should  I  go?  The  son  of  the  great 
Cumner  promised  for  the  Dakoon.  He  tells  the 
truth.  Light  of  my  soul,  but  truth  is  the  greatest 
of  all!  I  go  to  play  chuck-farthing." 

So  saying,  he  turned  and  ran  lazily  back  to  the 
Residency  and  sat  down  beneath  the  banyan-tree. 
The  orderly  had  no  commands  to  bring  him  by 
force,  so  he  returned  to  the  Palace,  and  entered 
it  as  the  English  Governor  was  ending  his  speech 
to  the  people. 

"We  were  in  danger,"  said  Cumner,  "and  the 
exalted  chief,  Pango  Dooni,  came  to  save  us.  He 
shielded  us  from  evil  and  death  and  the  dagger 
of  the  mongrel  chief,  Boonda  Broke.  Children 
of  heavenly  Mandakan,  Pango  Dooni  has  lived  at 

68 


CUMNER'S  SON 

variance  with  us,  but  now  he  is  our  friend.  A 
strong  man  should  rule  in  the  Palace  of  Mandakan 
as  my  brother  and  the  friend  of  my  people.  I 
speak  for  Pango  Dooni.  For  whom  do  you 
speak?" 

As  he  had  said,  so  said  all  the  people  in  the  Hall 
of  the  Heavenly  Hours,  and  it  was  taken  up  with 
shouts  by  the  people  in  the  Palace  yard.  Pango 
Dooni  should  be  Dakoon! 

Pango  Dooni  came  forward  and  said:  "If,  as 
ye  say,  I  have  saved  ye,  then  will  ye  do  after  my 
desire,  if  it  be  right.  I  am  too  long  at  variance 
with  this  Palace  to  sit  comfortably  here.  Some 
time,  out  of  my  bitter  memories,  I  should  smite 
ye.  Nay,  let  the  young,  who  have  no  wrongs 
to  satisfy,  let  the  young,  who  have  dreams  and 
visions  and  hopes,  rule;  not  the  old  lion  of  the 
hills,  who  loves  too  well  himself  and  his  rugged 
ease  of  body  and  soul.  But  if  ye  owe  me  any  debt, 
and  if  ye  mean  me  thanks,  then  will  ye  make  my 
son  Dakoon.  For  he  is  braver  than  I,  and  between 
ye  there  is  no  feud.  Then  will  I  be  your  friend, 
and  because  my  son  shall  be  Dakoon  I  will  harry 
ye  no  more,  but  bide  in  my  hills,  free  and  friendly, 
and  ready  with  sword  and  lance  to  stand  by  the 
faith  and  fealty  that  I  promise.  If  this  be  your 
will,  and  the  will  of  the  great  Cumner,  speak." 

Cumner  bowed  his  head  in  assent,  and  the 
people  called  in  a  loud  voice  for  Tang-a-Dahit. 

The  young  man  stepped  forth,  and,  baring  his 
head,  said: 

69 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"It  is  meet  that  the  race  be  to  the  swift,  to 
those  who  have  proven  their  faith  and  their 
swords;  who  have  the  gift  for  ruling,  and  the 
talent  of  the  sword  to  sustain  it.  For  me,  if  ye 
will  hear  me,  I  will  go  another  way.  I  will  not 
rule.  My  father  hath  passed  on  this  honor  to  me, 
but  I  yield  it  up  to  one  who  hath  saved  ye  from 
a  double  death,  even  to  the  great  Cumner's  Son. 
He  rode,  as  ye  know,  through  peril  to  Pango 
Dooni,  bearing  the  call  for  help,  and  he  hath 
helped  to  save  the  whole  land  from  the  Red 
Plague.  But  for  him  Mandakan  would  be  only 
a  place  of  graves.  Speak,  children  of  heavenly 
Mandakan,  whom  will  ye  choose?" 

When  Cumner's  Son  stood  forth  he  was  pale 
and  astounded  before  the  cries  of  greeting  that 
were  carried  out  through  the  Palace  yard,  through 
the  highways,  and  even  to  the  banyan-tree  where 
sat  the  beggar  of  Nangoon. 

"I  have  done  nothing,  I  have  done  nothing," 
said  he,  sincerely.  "It  was  Pango  Dooni,  it  was 
the  beggar  of  Nangoon.  I  am  not  fit  to  rule." 

He  turned  to  his  father,  but  saw  no  help  in  his 
eyes  for  refusal.  The  lad  read  the  whole  story 
of  his  father's  face,  and  he  turned  again  to  the 
people. 

"If  ye  will  have  it  so,  then,  by  the  grace  of  God, 
I  will  do  right  by  this  our  land,"  said  he. 

A  half-hour  later  he  stood  before  them,  wearing 
the  costly  robe  of  yellow  feathers  and  gold  and 
perfect  silk  of  the  Dakoon  of  Mandakan. 

70 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"The  beggar  of  Nangoon  who  saved  our  city, 
bid  him  come  near,"  he  said;  but  the  orderly 
stepped  forward  and  told  his  story  of  how  the 
beggar  had  returned  to  his  banyan-tree. 

"Then  tell  the  beggar  of  Nangoon,"  said  he, 
"that  if  he  will  not  visit  me,  I  will  visit  him;  and 
all  that  I  promised  for  the  Dakoon  of  Mandakan 
I  will  fulfil.  Let  Cushnan  Di  stand  forth,"  he 
added,  and  the  old  man  came  near.  "The  city 
which  was  yours  is  yours  again,  and  all  that  was 
taken  from  it  shall  be  restored,"  said  he. 

Then  he  called  him  by  his  real  name,  and  the 
people  were  amazed. 

Cushnan  Di,  as  he  had  been  known  to  them, 
said  quietly: 

"If  my  Lord  will  give  me  place  near  him  as 
general  of  his  armies  and  keeper  of  the  gates,  I 
will  not  ask  that  my  city  be  restored,  and  I  will 
live  near  to  the  Palace — " 

"Nay,  but  in  the  Palace,"  interrupted  Cumner's 
Son,  "and  thy  daughter  also,  who  hath  the  wis- 
dom of  heaven,  that  there  be  always  truth  shining 
in  these  high  places." 

An  hour  later  the  Dakoon  passed  through  the 
Path  by  the  Bazaar. 

"Whither  goes  the  Dakoon?"  asked  a  native 
chief  of  McDermot. 

"To  visit  a  dirty  beggar  in  the  Residency 
Square,  and  afterward  to  the  little  house  of 
Cushnan  Di,"  was  the  reply. 


IX 

THE    PROPHET   OF   PEACE 

THE  years  went  by. 

In  the  cool  of  a  summer  evening  a  long  pro- 
cession of  people  passed  through  the  avenues  of 
blossoming  peach  and  cherry  trees  in  Mandakan, 
singing  a  high  chant  or  song.  It  was  sacred,  yet 
it  was  not  solemn;  peaceful,  yet  not  sombre; 
rather  gentle,  aspiring,  and  clear.  The  people 
were  not  of  the  city  alone,  but  they  had  been 
gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  land — many 
thousands,  who  were  now  come  on  a  pilgrimage 
to  Mandakan. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  was  a  tall,  lithe 
figure,  whose  face  shone,  and  whose  look  was  at 
once  that  of  authority  and  love.  Three  years' 
labor  had  given  him  these  followers  and  many 
others.  His  dreams  were  coming  true. 

''Fighting,  fighting,  naught  but  fighting  for  honor 
and  glory  and  homes  and  kine,  but  naught  for  love, 
and  naught  that  there  may  be  peace." — This  was 
no  longer  true;  for  the  sword  of  young  Dakoon 
was  ever  lifted  for  love  and  for  peace. 

The  great  procession  stopped  near  a  little  house 
72 


CUMNER'S  SON 

by  the  Aqueduct  of  the  Failing  Fountain,  and 
spread  round  it,  and  the  leader  stepped  forward 
to  the  door  of  the  little  house  and  entered.  A 
silence  fell  upon  the  crowd,  for  they  were  to  look 
upon  the  face  of  a  dying  girl,  who  chose  to  dwell 
in  her  little  home  rather  than  in  a  palace. 

She  was  carried  forth  on  a  litter,  and  set  down, 
and  the  long  procession  passed  by  her  as  she  lay. 
She  smiled  at  all  an  ineffable  smile  of  peace,  and 
her  eyes  had  in  them  the  light  of  a  good  day 
drawing  to  its  close.  Only  once  did  she  speak, 
and  that  was  when  all  had  passed,  and  a  fine 
troop  of  horsemen  came  riding  up. 

This  was  the  Dakoon  of  Mandakan  and  his 
retinue.  When  he  dismounted  and  came  to  her, 
and  bent  over  her,  he  said  something  in  a  low 
tone  for  her  ear  alone,  and  she  smiled  at  him,  and 
whispered  the  one  word,  "Peace!" 

Then  the  Dakoon,  who  once  was  known  only 
as  Cumner's  Son,  turned  and  embraced  the 
prophet  Sandoni,  as  he  was  now  called,  though 
once  he  had  been  called  Tang-a-Dahit  the  hillsman. 

"What  message  shall  I  bear  thy  father?" 
asked  the  Dakoon,  after  they  had  talked  awhile. 

Sandoni  told  him,  and  then  the  Dakoon  said : 

"Thy  father  and  mine  who  are  gone  to  settle  a 
wild  tribe  of  the  hills  in  a  peaceful  city,  send  thee 
a  message." 

And  he  held  up  his  arm,  where  a  bracelet  shone. 

The  Prophet  read  thereon  the  Sacred  Counter- 
sign of  the  hillsmen. 

73 


THE  HIGH  COURT  OF  BUDGERY-GAR 

WE  were  camped  on  the  edge  of  a  billabong. 
Barlas  was  kneading  a  damper,  Drysdale  was 
tenderly  packing  coals  about  the  billy  to  make 
the  water  boil,  and  I  was  cooking  the  chops.  The 
hobbled  horses  were  picking  the  grass  and  the 
old-man  salt-bush  near,  and  Bimbi,  the  black  boy, 
was  gathering  twigs  and  bark  for  the  fire.  That 
is  the  order  of  merit — Barlas,  Drysdale,  myself, 
the  horses,  and  Bimbi.  Then  comes  the  Cadi  all 
by  himself.  He  is  given  an  isolated  and  indolent 
position,  because  he  was  our  guest  and  also 
because,  in  a  way,  he  represented  the  Government. 
And  though  bushmen  do  not  believe  much  in  a 
far-off  Government — even  though  they  say  when 
protesting  against  a  bad  Land  Law,  "And  your 
Petitioners  will  ever  Pray,"  and  all  that  kind  of 
yabber-yabber — they  give  its  representative  the 
lazy  side  of  the  fire  and  a  fig  of  the  best  tobacco 
when  he  bails  up  a  camp  as  the  Cadi  did  ours. 
Stewart  Ruttan,  the  Cadi,  was  the  new  magistrate, 
at  Windowie  and  Gilgan,  which  stand  for  a  huge 
section  of  the  Carpentaria  country.  He  was  now 
on  his  way  to  Gilgan  to  try  some  cases  there.  He 

74 


THE  HIGH  COURT  OF  BUDGERY-GAR 

was  a  new  chum,  though  he  had  lived  in  Australia 
for  years.  As  Barlas  said,  he'd  been  kept  in  a 
cultivation-paddock  in  Sydney  and  Brisbane ;  and 
he  was  now  going  to  take  the  business  of  justice 
out  of  the  hands  of  Heaven  and  its  trusted  agents 
the  bushmen,  and  reduce  the  land  to  the  peace  of 
the  Beatitudes  by  the  imposing  reign  of  law  and 
summary  judgments.  Barlas  had  just  said  as 
much,  though  in  different  language. 

I  knew  by  the  way  that  Barlas  dropped  the 
damper  on  the  hot  ashes  and  swung  round  on  his 
heel  that  he  was  in  a  bad  temper.  "And  so  you 
think,  Cadi,"  said  he,  "that  we  squatters  and 
bushmen  are  a  strong,  murderous  lot;  that  we 
hunt  down  the  Myalls*  like  kangaroos  or  dingoes, 
and  unrighteously  take  justice  in  our  own  hands 
instead  of  handing  it  over  to  you?" 

"I  think,"  said  the  Cadi,  "that  individual 
and  private  revenge  should  not  take  the  place 
of  the  Courts  of  Law.  If  the  blacks  commit 
depredations — ' ' 

"Depredations!"  interjected  Drysdale,  with 
sharp  scorn. 

"If  they  commit  depredations  and  crimes," 
the  Cadi  continued,  "they  should  be  captured  as 
criminals  are  captured  elsewhere,  and  be  brought 
in  and  tried.  In  that  way  respect  would  be 
shown  to  British  law  and"  (here  he  hesitated 
slightly,  for  Barlas'  face  was  not  pleasant  to  see) — 
"and  the  statutes." 

*  Aborigines. 

75 


CUMNER'S  SON 

But  Barlas'  voice  was  almost  compassionate  as 
he  said:  "Cadi,  every  man  to  his  trade,  and  you've 
got  yours.  But  you  haven't  learned  yet  that 
this  isn't  Brisbane  or  Melbourne.  You  haven't 
stopped  to  consider  how  many  police  would  be 
necessary  for  this  immense  area  of  country  if  you 
are  really  to  be  of  any  use.  And  see  here  "  (his 
face  grew  grim  and  dark),  "you  don't  know  what 
it  is  to  wait  for  the  law  to  set  things  right  in  this 
Never  Never  Land.  There  isn't  a  man  in  the 
Carpentaria  and  Port  Darwin  country  but  has 
lost  a  friend  by  the  cowardly  crack  of  a  waddy 
in  the  dead  of  night  or  a  spear  from  behind  a 
tree.  Never  any  fair  fighting,  but  red  slaughter 
and  murder — curse  their  black  hearts!"  Barlas 
gulped  down  what  seemed  very  like  a  sob. 

Drysdale  and  I  knew  how  strongly  Barlas  felt. 
He  had  been  engaged  to  be  married  to  a  girl  on 
the  Daly  River,  and  a  week  before  the  wedding 
she  and  her  mother  and  her  two  brothers  were 
butchered  by  blacks  whom  they  had  often  be- 
friended and  fed.  We  knew  what  had  turned 
Barlas'  hair  gray  and  spoiled  his  life. 

Drysdale  took  up  the  strain:  "Yes,  Cadi, 
you've  got  the  true  missionary  gospel,  the  kind  of 
yabber  they  fire  at  each  other  over  tea  and  buns 
at  Darling  Point  and  Toorak — all  about  the  poor 
native  and  the  bad,  bad  men  who  don't  put  peas 
in  their  guns,  and  do  sometimes  get  an  eye  for  an 
eye  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth.  .  .  .  Come  here, 
Bimbi."  Bimbi  came. 

76 


THE  HIGH  COURT  OF  BUDGERY-GAR 

"Yes,  master,"  Bimbi  said. 

"You  kill  that  black-fellow  mother  belonging 
to  you?" 

"Yes,  master." 

"Yes,"  Drysdale  continued,  "Bimbi  went  out 
with  a  police  expedition  against  his  own  tribe, 
and  himself  cut  his  own  mother's  head  off.  As  a 
race,  as  a  family,  the  blacks  have  no  loyalty. 
They  will  track  their  own  brothers  down  for  the 
whites  as  ruthlessly  as  they  track  down  the 
whites.  As  a  race  they  are  treacherous  and  vile, 
though  as  individuals  they  may  have  good  points." 

"No,  Cadi,"  once  more  added  Barlas,  "we  can 
get  along  very  well  without  your  consolidated 
statutes  or  High  Courts  or  Low  Courts  just  yet. 
They  are  too  slow.  Leave  the  black  devils  to  us. 
You  can  never  prove  anything  against  them  in 
a  court  of  law.  We've  tried  that.  Tribal  punish- 
ment is  the  only  proper  thing  for  individual 
crime.  That  is  what  the  nations  practise  in  the 
islands  of  the  South  Seas.  A  trader  or  a  Govern- 
ment official  is  killed.  Then  a  man-of-war  sweeps 
a  native  village  out  of  existence  with  Hotchkiss 
guns.  Cadi,  we  like  you ;  but  we  say  to  you,  Go 
back  to  your  cultivation-paddock  at  Brisbane, 
and  marry  a  wife  and  beget  children  before  the 
Lord,  and  feed  on  the  Government,  and  let  us 
work  out  our  own  salvation.  We'll  preserve 
British  justice  and  the  statutes,  too.  .  .  .  There, 
the  damper,  as  Bimbi  would  say,  is  corbon  budgery, 
and  your  chop  is  done  to  a  turn,  Cadi.  And  now 

77 


CUMNER'S  SON 

let's  talk  of  something  that  doesn't  leave  a  bad 
taste  in  the  mouth." 

The  Cadi  undoubtedly  was  more  at  home  with 
reminiscences  of  nights  at  the  Queensland  Club 
and  moonlight  picnics  at  lovely  Humpy  Bong  and 
champagne  spreads  in  a  Government  launch  than 
at  dispensing  law  in  the  Carpentaria  district.  And 
he  had  eager  listeners.  Drysdale's  open-mouthed, 
admiring  "My  word!"  as  he  puffed  his  pipe,  his 
back  against  an  iron-bark  tree,  was  most  eloquent 
of  long  banishment  from  the  delights  of  the 
"cultivation-paddock";  and  Barlas  nodded  fre- 
quently his  approval,  and  was  less  grim  than  usual. 
Yet,  peaceful  as  we  were,  it  might  have  puzzled  a 
stranger  to  see  that  all  of  us  were  armed — armed 
in  this  tenantless,  lonely  wilderness!  Lonely  and 
tenantless  enough  it  seemed.  There  was  the 
range  of  the  Copper-mine  hills  to  the  south, 
lighted  by  the  wan  moon ;  and  between  and  to  the 
west  a  rough  scrub  country,  desolating  beyond 
words,  and  where  even  edible  snakes  would  be 
scarce;  spots  of  dead-finish,  gidya,  and  brigalow- 
bush  to  north  and  east,  and  in  the  trees  by  the 
billabong  the  cry  of  the  cockatoo  and  the  laughing- 
jackass.  It  was  lonely,  but  surely  it  was  safe. 
Yes,  perhaps  it  was  safe! 

It  was  late  when  we  turned  in,  our  heads  upon 
our  saddles,  for  the  Cadi  had  been  more  than 
amusing — he  had  been  confidential,  and  some  po- 
litical characters  were  roughly  overhauled  for  our 
benefit,  while  so-called  Society  did  not  escape  flag- 

78 


THE  HIGH  COURT  OF  BUDGERY-GAR 

ellation.  Next  morning  the  Cadi  left  us.  He  gave 
us  his  camps — Bora  Bora,  Budgery-Gar,  Wintelliga, 
and  Gilgan — since  we  were  to  go  in  his  direction  also 
soon.  He  turned  round  in  his  saddle  as  he  rode  off, 
and  said,  gayly:  "Gentlemen,  I  hope  you'll  al- 
ways help  to  uphold  the  majesty  of  the  law  as  nobly 
as  you  have  sustained  its  envoy  from  your  swags." 

Drysdale  and  I  waved  our  hands  to  him,  but 
Barlas  muttered  something  between  his  teeth. 
We  had  two  days  of  cattle-hunting  in  the  Copper- 
mine hills,  and  then  we  started  westward,  in 
the  tracks  of  the  Cadi,  to  make  for  Barlas' 
station.  The  second  day  we  camped  at  Bora  Bora 
Creek.  We  had  just  hobbled  the  horses,  and 
were  about  to  build  a  fire,  when  Bimbi  came 
running  to  us.  "Master,  master,"  he  said  to 
Drysdale,  "that  fellow  Cadi  yarraman  mumkull 
over  there.  Plenty  myall  mandowie!"  (Master, 
master,  the  Cadi's  horse  is  dead  over  there,  and 
there  are  plenty  of  black  fellows'  tracks  about). 

We  found  the  horse  pierced  with  spears.  The 
Cadi  had  evidently  mounted  and  tried  to  get  away. 
And  soon,  by  a  clump  of  the  stay-a-while  bush,  we 
discovered,  alas !  the  late  companion  of  our  camp- 
fire.  He  was  gashed  from  head  to  foot,  and  naked. 

We  buried  him  beneath  a  rustling  sandal-tree, 
and  on  its  bark  carved  the  words: 

"  Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Stewart  Ruttan." 
And  beneath,  Barlas  added  the  following: 

"  The  Cadi  sleeps.     The  Law  regards  him  not." 
6  79 


CUMNER'S  SON 

In  a  pocket  of  the  Cadi's  coat,  which  lay  near, 
we  found  the  picture  of  a  pretty  girl.  On  it  was 
written : 

"To  dearest  Stewart,  from  Alice." 

Barlas'  face  was  stern  and  drawn.  He  looked 
at  us  from  under  his  shaggy  brows. 

"There's  a  Court  to  be  opened,"  he  said:  "Do 
you  stand  for  law  or  justice?" 

"For  justice,"  we  replied. 

Four  days  later  in  a  ravine  at  Budgery-Gar  a 
big  camp  of  blacks  were  feasting.  With  loath- 
some pantomime  they  were  re-enacting  the  mur- 
ders they  had  committed  within  the  past  few 
days;  murders  of  innocent  white  women  and 
children,  and  good  men  and  true — among  them 
the  Cadi,  God  help  him !  Great  fires  were  burning 
in  the  centre  of  the  camp,  and  the  bodies  of  the 
black  devils  writhed  with  hideous  color  in  the 
glare.  Effigies  of  murdered  whites  were  speared 
and  mangled  with  brutal  cries,  and  then 
black  women  of  the  camp  were  brought  out, 
and  mockeries  of  unnameable  horrors  were 
performed.  Hell  had  emptied  forth  its  car- 
rion. 

But  twelve  bitter  white  men  looked  down  upon 
this  scene  from  the  scrub  and  rocks  above,  and 
their  teeth  were  set.  Barlas,  their  leader,  turned 
to  them  and  said : 

"This  court  is  open.     Are  you  ready?" 
80 


THE  HIGH  COURT  OF  BUDGERY-GAR 

The  click  of  twelve  rifles  was  the  reply. 

When  these  twelve  white  jurymen  rode  away 
from  the  ravine  there  was  not  one  but  believed 
that  justice  had  been  done  by  the  High  Court  of 
Budgery-Gar. 


AN  EPIC  IN  YELLOW 

THERE  was  a  culminating  growth  of  irritation 
on  board  the  Merrie  Monarch.  The  Captain  was 
markedly  fitful  and,  to  a  layman's  eye,  unreliable 
at  the  helm ;  the  Hon.  Skye  Terryer  was  smoking 
violently,  and  the  Newspaper  Correspondent- 
representing  an  American  syndicate — chewed  his 
cigar  in  silence. 

"Yes,"  Gregson,  the  Member  of  Parliament, 
continued,  "if  I  had  my  way  I'd  muster  every 
mob  of  Chinamen  in  Australia,  I'd  have  one 
thundering  big  round-up,  and  into  the  Pacific  and 
the  Indian  Sea  they'd  go,  to  the  crack  of  a  stock- 
whip or  of  something  more  convincing."  The 
Hon.  Skye  Terryer  was  in  agreement  with  the 
Squatting  Member  in  the  principle  of  his  argu- 
ment if  not  in  the  violence  of  his  remedies.  He 
was  a  young  travelling  Englishman;  one  of  that 
class  who  are  Radicals  at  twenty,  Independents 
at  thirty,  and  Conservatives  at  forty.  He  had 
not  yet  reached  the  intermediate  stage.  He  saw 
in  this  madcap  Radical  Member  one  of  the  crude 
but  strong  expressions  of  advanced  civilization. 
He  had  the  noble  ideal  of  Australia  as  a  land 

82 


AN  EPIC  IN  YELLOW 

trodden  only  by  the  Caucasian.  The  Correspond- 
ent, much  to  our  surprise,  had  by  occasional  inter- 
jections at  the  beginning  of  the  discussion  showed 
that  he  was  not  antipathetic  to  Mongolian  immi- 
gration. The  Captain  ? 

"Yes,  I'd  give  'em  Botany  Bay,  my  word!" 
added  the  Member  as  an  anti-climax. 

The  Captain  let  go  the  helm  with  a  suddenness 
which  took  our  breath  away,  apparently  regardless 
that  we  were  going  straight  as  an  arrow  on  the 
Island  of  Pentecost,  the  shore  of  which,  in  its 
topaz  and  emerald  tints,  was  pretty  enough  to 
look  at  but  not  to  attack  end  on.  He  pushed 
both  hands  down  deep  into  his  pockets  and 
squared  himself  for  war. 

"Gregson,"  he  said,  "that  kind  of  talk  may  be 
good  enough  for  Parliament  and  for  labor  meet- 
ings, but  it  is  not  proper  diet  for  the  Merrie 
Monarch.  It's  a  kind  of  political  gospel  that's 
no  better  than  the  creed  of  the  Malay  who  runs 
amuck.  God's  Providence — where  would  your 
Port  Darwin  County  have  been  without  the  China- 
man? What  would  have  come  to  tropical  agri- 
culture in  North  Queensland  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  same  ?  And  what  would  all  your  cities  do 
for  vegetables  to  eat  and  clean  shirts  to  their 
backs  if  it  was  not  for  the  Chinkie?  As  for  their 
morals,  look  at  the  police  records  of  any  well- 
regulated  city  where  they  are — well-regulated, 
mind  you,  not  like  San  Francisco!  I  pity  the 
morals  of  a  man  and  the  stupidity  of  him  and  the 

83 


CUMNER'S  SON 

benightedness  of  him  that  would  drive  the  China- 
man out  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet  or  by  the 
crack  of  a  rifle.  I  pity  that  man,  and — and  I 
wash  my  hands  of  him." 

And  having  said  all  this  with  a  strong  Scotch 
accent  the  Captain  opportunely  turned  to  his 
duty  and  prevented  us  from  trying  conclusions 
with  the  walls  of  a  precipice,  over  which  fell  silver 
streams  of  water  like  giant  ropes  up  which  the 
Naiads  might  climb  to  balmy  enclosures  where 
Dryads  dwelt.  The  beauty  of  the  scene  was  but 
a  mechanical  impression,  to  be  remembered  after- 
ward when  thousands  of  miles  away,  for  the 
American  Correspondent  now  at  last  lit  his  cigar 
and  took  up  the  strain. 

"Say,  the  Captain's  right,"  he  said.  "You 
English  are  awful  prigs  and  hypocrites,  politically; 
as  selfish  a  lot  as  you'll  find  on  the  face  of  the 
globe.  But  in  this  matter  of  the  Chinaman  there 
isn't  any  difference  between  a  man  from  Oregon 
and  one  from  Sydney,  only  the  Oregonian  isn't  a 
prig  and  a  hypocrite ;  he's  only  a  brute,  a  bragging, 
hard-handed  brute.  He  got  the  Chinaman  to 
build  his  railways — he  couldn't  get  any  other  race 
to  do  it — same  fix  as  the  planter  in  North  Queens- 
land with  the  Polynesian;  and  to  serve  him  in 
pioneer  times  and  open  up  the  country,  and  when 
that  was  done  he  turns  round  and  says,  'Out  you 
go,  you  Chinkie!  out  you  go  and  out  you  stay! 
We're  going  to  reap  this  harvest  all  alone;  we're 
going  to  Chicago  you  clean  off  the  table!'  And 

84 


AN  EPIC  IN  YELLOW 

Washington,  the  Home  of  Freedom  and  Tammany 
Tigers,  shoves  a  prohibitive  Bill  through  the 
Legislature  as  Parkes  did  in  Sydney;  only  Parkes 
talked  a  lot  of  Sunday-school  business  about  the 
solidarity  of  the  British  race,  and  Australia  for 
the  Australians,  and  all  that  patter;  and  the 
Oregonian  showed  his  dirty  palm  of  selfishness 
straight  out,  and  didn't  blush  either.  'Give  'em 
Botany  Bay!  Give  'em  the  stock-whip  and  the 
rifle!'  That's  a  nice  gospel  for  the  Anglo-Saxon 
dispensation." 

The  suddenness  of  the  attack  overwhelmed  the 
Member,  but  he  was  choking  with  wrath.  Had 
he  not  stone-walled  in  the  New  South  Wales 
Parliament  for  nine  hours,  and  been  placed  on 
a  Royal  Commission  for  that  service?  "My 
word!"  But  the  box  of  cigars  was  here  amiably 
passed,  and  what  seemed  like  a  series  of  inter- 
national complications  was  stayed.  It  was  per- 
haps fortunate,  however,  that  at  this  moment 
a  new  interest  sprang  up.  We  were  rounding  a 
lofty  headland  crowned  with  groves  of  cocoa- 
palms  and  bananas  and  with  trailing  skirts  of 
flowers  and  vines,  when  we  saw  ahead  of  us  a 
pretty  little  bay,  and  on  the  shore  a  human  being 
plainly  not  a  Polynesian.  Up  the  hillside  that 
rose  suddenly  from  the  beach  was  a  thatched 
dwelling,  not  built  open  all  round  like  most  native 
houses,  and  apparently  having  but  one  doorway. 
In  front  of  the  house,  and  near  it,  was  a  tall  staff, 
and  on  the  staff  the  British  flag! 

85 


CUMNER'S  SON 

In  a  moment  we,  too,  had  the  British  flag 
flying  at  our  masthead. 

Long  ago  I  ceased  to  wonder  at  coincidences, 
still  I  confess  I  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the 
Correspondent's  exclamation,  as  taking  the  marine 
glass  from  his  eyes,  he  said,  "  Well,  I'm  decalogued 
if  it  ain't  a  Chinaman!" 

It  certainly  was  so.  Here  on  the  Island  of 
Pentecost,  in  the  New  Hebrides,  was  a  Celestial 
washing  clothes  on  the  beach  as  much  at  home  as 
though  he  were  in  Tacoma  or  Cooktown.  The 
Member's  "My  oath!"  Skye  Terryer's  "Ah!"  and 
the  Captain's  chuckle  were  as  weighty  with  im- 
portance as  though  the  whole  question  of  Chinese 
immigration  were  now  to  be  settled.  As  we 
hove-to  and  dropped  anchor,  a  boat  was  pushed 
out  into  the  surf  by  a  man  who  had  hurriedly 
come  down  the  beach  from  the  house.  In  a 
moment  or  two  he  was  alongside.  An  English 
face  and  English  voice  greeted  us,  and  in  the 
doorway  of  the  house  were  an  Englishwoman  and 
her  child. 

What  pleasure  this  meeting  gave  to  us  and  to 
the  trader — for  such  he  was,  those  only  can  know 
who  have  sailed  these  Southern  Seas  through 
long  and  nerveless  tropic  days,  and  have  lived, 
as  this  man  did  with  his  wife  and  child,  for 
months  never  seeing  a  white  face,  and  ever  in 
danger  of  an  attack  from  cannibal  tribes,  who, 
when  apparently  most  disposed  to  amity,  are 
really  planning  a  massacre.  Yet  with  that  in- 

86 


AN  EPIC  IN  YELLOW 

stinct  of  gain  so  strong  in  the  Anglo-Saxon,  this 
trader  had  dared  the  worst  for  the  chance  of 
making  money  quickly  and  plentifully  by  the 
sale  of  copra  to  occasional  vessels.  The  China- 
man had  come  with  the  trader  from  Queensland, 
and  we  were  assured  was  "as  good  as  gold."  If 
color  counted,  he  looked  it.  At  this  the  pro- 
Mongolian  magnanimously  forbore  to  show  any 
signs  of  triumph.  The  Correspondent,  on  the 
contrary,  turned  to  the  Chinaman  and  began 
chaffing  him;  he  continued  it  as  the  others,  save 
myself,  passed  on  toward  the  house. 

This  was  the  close  of  the  dialogue:  "Well, 
John,  how  are  you  getting  on?" 

"Welly  good,"  was  John's  reply;  "thirletty 
dollars  a  month,  and  learn  the  plan  of  salvation." 

The  Correspondent  laughed. 

"Well,  you  good  Englishman,  John?  You  like 
British  flag?  You  fight?" 

And  John,  blinking  jaundicely,  replied:  "John 
allee  samee  Linglishman — muchee  fightee  blimeby 
— nigger  no  eatee  China  boy."  And  he  chuckled. 

A  day  and  a  night  we  lingered  in  the  little  Bay 
of  Vivi,  and  then  we  left  it  behind;  each  of  us, 
however,  watching  till  we  could  see  the  house  on 
the  hillside  and  the  flag  no  longer,  and  one  at 
least  wondering  if  that  secret  passage  into  the 
hills  from  the  palm-thatched  home  would  ever 
be  used  as  the  white  dwellers  fled  for  their  lives. 

We  had  promised  that,  if  we  came  near  Pente- 
cost again  on  our  cruise,  we  would  spend  another 

87 


CUMNER'S  SON 

idle  day  in  the  pretty  bay.  Two  months  passed, 
and  then  we  kept  our  word.  As  we  rounded  the 
lofty  headland  the  Correspondent  said,  "Say,  I'm 
hankering  after  that  baby!"  But  the  Captain  at 
the  moment  hoarsely  cried,  "God's  love!  but 
where  are  the  house  and  the  flag?" 

There  was  no  house  and  there  was  no  flag  above 
the  Bay  of  Vivi. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  we  stood  beside  the 
flagstaff,  and  at  our  feet  lay  a  moaning,  mangled 
figure.  It  was  the  Chinaman,  and  over  his  gashed 
misery  were  drawn  the  folds  of  the  flag  that  had 
flown  on  the  staff.  What  horror  we  feared  for 
those  who  were  not  to  be  seen  needs  no  telling 
here. 

As  for  the  Chinaman,  it  was  as  he  said;  the 
cannibals  would  not  "eatee  Chinee  boy."  They 
were  fastidious.  They  had  left  him,  disdaining 
even  to  take  his  head  for  a  trophy. 

Hours  after,  on  board  the  Merrie  Monarch,  we 
learned  in  fragments  the  sad  story.  It  was  John 
Chinaman  that  covered  the  retreat  of  the  wife 
and  child  into  the  hills  when  the  husband  had 
fallen. 

The  last  words  that  the  dying  Chinkee  said 
were  these:  "Blitish  flag  wellee  good  thing  keepee 
China  boy  walm;  plentee  good  thing  China  boy 
sleepee  in  all  a- time." 

So  it  was.  With  rude  rites  and  reverent  hands, 
we  lowered  him  to  the  deep  from  the  decks  of  the 
Merrie  Monarch,  and  round  him  was  that  flag 

88 


AN  EPIC  IN  YELLOW 

under  which  he  had  fought  for  Englishwoman  and 
English  child  so  valorously. 

"And  he  went  like  a  warrior  into  his  rest 
With  the  Union  Jack  around  him." 

That  was  the  paraphrasing  epitaph  the  Corre- 
spondent wrote  for  him  in  the  pretty  Bay  of  Vivi, 
and  when  he  read  it,  we  all  drank  in  silence  to  the 
memory  of  "a  Chinkie. " 

We  found  the  mother  and  the  child  on  the  other 
side  of  the  island  ere  a  week  had  passed,  and  bore 
them  away  in  safety.  They  speak  to-day  of  a 
member  of  a  despised  race  as  one  who  showed 

"The  constant  service  of  the  antique  world." 


DIBBS,  R.N. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Neddie  Dibbs,"  she  said, 
as  she  bounced  the  ball  lightly  on  her  tennis- 
racquet,  "you  are  very  precipitate.  It's  only 
four  weeks  since  you  were  court-martialed,  and 
you  escaped  being  reduced  by  the  very  closest 
shave;  and  yet  you  come  and  make  love  to  me, 
and  want  me  to  marry  you.  You  don't  lack  con- 
fidence, certainly." 

Commander  Dibbs,  R.N.,  was  hurt;  but  he  did 
not  become  dramatic.  He  felt  the  point  of  his 
torpedo-cut  beard,  and  smiled  up  pluckily  at  her 
— she  was  much  taller  than  he. 

"I  know  the  thing  went  against  me  rather,"  he 
said,  "but  it  was  all  wrong,  I  assure  you.  It's 
cheeky,  of  course,  to  come  to  you  like  this  so  soon 
after,  but  for  two  years  I've  been  looking  forward 
up  there  in  the  China  Sea  to  meeting  you  again. 
You  don't  know  what  a  beast  of  a  station  it  is — 
besides,  I  didn't  think  you'd  believe  the  charge." 

"The  charge  was  that  you  had  endangered  the 
safety  of  one  of  her  Majesty's  cruisers  by  trying 
to  run  through  an  unexplored  opening  in  the  Bar- 
rier Reef.  Was  that  it?" 

90 


DIBBS,  R.N. 

"That  was  it." 

"And  you  didn't  endanger  her?" 

"Yes,  I  did,  but  not  wilfully,  of  course,  nor  yet 
stupidly." 

' '  I  read  the  evidence,  and,  frankly,  it  looked  like 
stupidity." 

"I  haven't  been  called  stupid  usually,  have  I?" 

"No.  I've  heard  you  called  many  things,  but 
never  that." 

Every  inch  of  his  five-feet-five  was  pluck.  He 
could  take  her  shots  broadside,  and  laugh  while 
he  winced.  "You've  heard  me  called  a  good 
many  things  not  complimentary,  I  suppose,  for  I 
know  I'm  not  much  to  look  at,  and  I've  an  edge 
to  my  tongue  sometimes.  What  is  the  worst 
thing  you  ever  said  of  me?"  he  added,  a  little 
bitterly. 

"What  I  say  to  you  now — though,  by  the  way, 
I've  never  said  it  before — that  your  self-confidence 
is  appalling.  Don't  you  know  that  I'm  very 
popular,  that  they  say  I'm  clever,  and  that  I'm 
a  tall,  good-looking  girl?" 

She  looked  down  at  him,  and  said  it  with  such 
a  delightful  naivett,  through  which  a  tone  of  rail- 
lery ran,  that  it  did  not  sound  as  it  may  read. 
She  knew  her  full  value,  but  no  one  had  ever 
accused  her  of  vanity — she  was  simply  the  most 
charming,  outspoken  girl  in  the  biggest  city  of 
Australia. 

"Yes,  I  know  all  that,"  he  replied,  with  an  hon- 
est laugh.  "When  you  were  a  little  child — ac- 

91 


CUMNER'S  SON 

cording  to  your  mother — and  were  told  you  were 
not  good,  you  said:  'No,  I'm  not  good — I'm  only 
beautiful.'" 

Dibbs  had  a  ready  tongue,  and  nothing  else  he 
said  at  the  moment  could  have  had  so  good  an 
effect.  She  laughed  softly  and  merrily.  "You 
have  awkward  little  corners  in  your  talk  at  times. 
I  wonder  they  didn't  reduce  you  at  the  court- 
martial.  You  were  rather  keen  with  your  words 
once  or  twice  there." 

A  faint  flush  ran  over  Dibbs's  face,  but  he 
smiled  through  it,  and  didn't  give  away  an  inch 
of  self-possession.  "If  the  board  had  been  wom- 
en, I'd  have  been  reduced  right  enough — women 
don't  go  by  evidence,  but  by  their  feelings;  they 
don't  know  what  justice  really  is,  though  by  nature 
they've  some  undisciplined  generosity." 

"There  again  you  are  foolish.  I'm  a  woman. 
Now  why  do  you  say  such  things  to  me,  especially 
when — ivhen  you  are  aspiring  ?  Properly,  I  ought 
to  punish  you.  But  why  did  you  say  those  sharp 
things  at  your  trial  ?  They  probably  told  against 
you." 

"I  said  them  because  I  felt  them,  and  I  hate 
flummery  and  thick-headedness.  I  was  as  re- 
spectful as  I  could  be ;  but  there  were  things  about 
the  trial  I  didn't  like — irregular  things,  which  the 
Admiral  himself,  who  knows  his  business,  set 
right." 

"I  remember  the  Admiral  said  there  were  points 
about  the  case  that  he  couldn't  quite  understand, 

92 


DIBBS,  R.N. 

but  that  they  could  only  go  by  such  testimony  as 
they  had." 

"Exactly,"  he  said,  sententiously. 

She  wheeled  softly  on  him,  and  looked  him  full 
in  the  eyes.  "What  other  testimony  was  there 
to  offer?" 

"We  are  getting  a  long  way  from  our  starting- 
point,"  he  answered,  evasively.  "We  were  talk- 
ing of  a  more  serious  matter." 

"But  a  matter  with  which  this  very  thing  has 
to  do,  Neddie  Dibbs.  There's  a  mystery  some- 
where. I've  asked  Archie;  but  he  won't  say  a 
word  about  it,  except  that  he  doesn't  think  you 
were  to  blame." 

"Your  brother  is  a  cautious  fellow."  Then, 
hurriedly:  "He  is  quite  right  to  express  no  opin- 
ion as  to  any  mystery.  Least  said  soonest 
mended." 

' '  You  mean  that  it  is  proper  not  to  discuss  pro- 
fessional matters  in  society?" 

"That's  it."  A  change  had  passed  over  Dibbs's 
face — it  was  slightly  paler,  but  his  voice  was  genial 
and  inconsequential. 

"Come  and  sit  down  at  the  Point,"  she  said. 

They  went  to  a  cliff  which  ran  out  from  one 
corner  of  the  garden,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench. 
Before  them  stretched  the  harbor,  dotted  with 
sails;  men-of-war  lay  at  anchor,  among  them  the 
little  Ruby,  Commander  Dibbs's  cruiser.  Pleasure 
steamers  went  hurrying  along  to  many  shady  har- 
bors; a  tall-masted  schooner  rode  grandly  in  be- 

93 


CUMNER'S  SON 

tween  the  Heads,  valanced  with  foam;  and  a 
beach  beneath  them  shone  like  opal:  it  was  a 
handsome  sight. 

For  a  time  they  were  silent.  At  last  he  said: 
"I  know  I  haven't  much  to  recommend  me.  I'm 
a  little  beggar — nothing  to  look  at;  I'm  pretty 
poor;  I've  had  no  influence  to  push  me  on;  and 
just  at  the  critical  point  in  my  career — when  I 
was  expecting  promotion — I  get  this  set-back, 
and  lose  your  good  opinion,  which  is  more  to  me, 
though  I  say  it  bluntly  like  a  sailor,  than  the 
praise  of  all  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty,  if  it  could 
be  got.  You  see,  I  always  was  ambitious;  was 
certain  I'd  be  a  captain;  I  swore  I'd  be  an  ad- 
miral one  day ;  and  I  fell  in  love  with  the  best  girl 
in  the  world,  and  said  I'd  not  give  up  thinking 
I  would  marry  her  until  and  unless  I  saw  her 
wearing  another  man's  name — and  I  don't  know 
that  I  should  even  then." 

"Now  that  sounds  complicated — or  wicked," 
she  said,  her  face  turned  away  from  him. 

"Believe  me,  it  is  not  complicated;  and  men 
marry  widows  sometimes." 

"You  are  shocking,"  she  said,  turning  on  him 
with  a  flush  to  her  cheek  and  an  angry  glitter  in 
her  eye.  "How  dare  you  speak  so  cold-bloodedly 
and  thoughtlessly?" 

"I  am  not  cold-blooded  or  thoughtless,  nor  yet 
shocking.  I  only  speak  what  is  in  my  mind  with 
my  usual  crudeness.  I  know  it  sounds  insolent 
of  me,  but,  after  all,  it  is  only  being  bold  with  the 

94 


DIBBS,  R.N. 

woman  for  whom — half-disgraced,  insignificant, 
but  unquenchable  fellow  as  I  am — I'd  do  as  much 
as,  and,  maybe,  dare  more  for  than  any  one  of 
the  men  who  would  marry  her  if  they  could." 

"I  like  ambitious  men,"  she  said,  relenting,  and 
meditatively  pushing  the  grass  with  her  tennis- 
racket;  "but  ambition  isn't  everything,  is  it? 
There  must  be  some  kind  of  fulfilment  to  turn  it 
into  capital,  as  it  were.  Don't  let  me  hurt  your 
feelings,  but  you  haven't  done  a  great  deal  yet, 
have  you?" 

"No,  I  haven't.  There  must  be  occasion.  The 
chance  to  do  something  big  may  start  up  any 
time,  however.  You  never  can  tell  when  things 
will  come  your  way.  You've  got  to  be  ready, 
that's  all." 

"You  are  very  confident." 

"You'll  call  me  a  prig  directly,  perhaps,  but  I 
can't  help  that.  I've  said  things  to  you  that  I've 
never  said  to  any  one  in  the  world,  and  I  don't 
regret  saying  them." 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  She  had  never 
been  made  love  to  in  this  fashion.  There  was  no 
sentimentalism  in  it,  only  straightforward  feeling, 
forceful,  yet  gentle.  She  knew  he  was  aware  that 
the  Admiral  of  his  squadron  had  paid,  and  was 
paying,  court  to  her;  that  a  titled  aide-de-camp 
at  Government  House  was  conspicuously  atten- 
tive; that  one  of  the  richest  squatters  in  the 
country  was  ready  to  make  astonishing  settle- 
ments at  any  moment;  and  that  there  was  not  a 

7  95 


CUMNER'S  SON 

young  man  of  note  acquainted  with  her  who  did 
not  offer  her  gallant  service — in  the  ball-room. 
She  smiled  as  she  thought  of  it.  He  was  certainly 
not  large,  but  no  finer  head  was  ever  set  on 
a  man's  shoulders — powerful,  strongly  outlined, 
nobly  balanced.  The  eyes  were  everywhere — 
searching,  indomitable,  kind.  It  was  a  head  for 
a  sculptor.  Ambition  became  it  well.  She  had 
studied  that  head  from  every  standpoint,  and 
had  had  the  keenest  delight  in  talking  to  the  man. 
But,  as  he  said,  that  was  two  years  before,  and 
he  had  had  bad  luck  since  then. 

She  suddenly  put  this  question  to  him:  "Tell 
me  all  the  truth  about  that  accident  to  the  Ruby. 
You  have  been  hiding  something.  The  Admiral 
was  right,  I  know.  Some  evidence  was  not  forth- 
coming that  would  have  thrown  a  different  light 
on  the  affair." 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing,"  he  promptly  replied. 

"I  shall  find  out  one  day,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  not;  though  I'm  grateful  that  you 
wish  to  do  so." 

He  rose  hurriedly  to  his  feet;  he  was  looking 
at  the  harbor  below.  He  raised  the  field-glass 
he  had  carried  from  the  veranda  to  his  eyes. 
He  was  watching  a  yacht  making  across  the  bay 
toward  them. 

She  spoke  again.  "You  are  going  again  to- 
morrow?" 

"Yes;  all  the  ships  of  the  squadron  but  one 
get  away." 

96 


DIBBS,  R.N. 

"How  long  shall  you  be  gone?" 
"Six  months  at  least — great  God!" 
He  had  not  taken  the  glasses  from  his  eyes  as 
they  talked,  but  had  watched  the  yacht  as  she 
came  on  to  get  under  the  lee  of  the  high  shore  at 
their  right.  He  had  noticed  that  one  of  those 
sudden  fierce  winds,  called  Southerly  Busters,  was 
sweeping  down  toward  the  craft,  and  would  catch 
it  when  it  came  round  sharp,  as  it  must  do.  He 
recognized  the  boat  also.  It  belonged  to  Laura 
Harman's  father,  and  her  brother  Archie  was  in 
it.  The  gale  caught  the  yacht  as  Dibbs  foresaw, 
and  swamped  her.  He  dropped  the  glass,  cried 
to  the  girl  to  follow,  and  in  a  minute  had  scrambled 
down  the  cliff,  and  thrown  off  most  of  his  things. 
He  had  launched  a  skiff  by  the  time  the  girl 
reached  the  shore.  She  got  in  without  a  word. 
She  was  deadly  pale,  but  full  of  nerve.  They 
rowed  hard  to  where  they  could  see  two  men 
clinging  to  the  yacht;  there  had  been  three  in  it. 
The  two  men  were  not  hauled  in,  for  the  gale 
was  blowing  too  hard,  but  they  clung  to  the  rescu- 
ing skiff.  The  girl's  brother  was  not  to  be  seen. 
Instantly  Dibbs  dived  under  the  yacht.  It 
seemed  an  incredible  time  before  he  reappeared; 
but  when  he  did,  he  had  a  body  with  him.  Blood 
was  coming  from  his  nose,  the  strain  of  holding 
his  breath  had  been  so  great.  It  was  impossible 
to  get  the  insensible  body  into  the  skiff.  He 
grasped  the  side,  and  held  the  boy's  head  up.  The 
girl  rowed  hard,  but  made  little  headway.  Other 

97 


CUMMER'S  SON 

rescue  boats  arrived  presently,  however,  and  they 
were  all  got  to  shore  safely. 

Lieutenant  Archie  Harman  did  not  die.  Anima- 
tion was  restored  after  great  difficulty,  but  he  did 
not  sail  away  with  the  Ruby  next  morning  to  the 
Polynesian  Islands.  Another  man  took  his  place. 

Little  was  said  between  Commander  Dibbs  and 
Laura  Harman  at  parting  late  that  night.  She 
came  from  her  brother's  bedside  and  laid  her 
hand  upon  his  arm.  "It  is  good,"  she  said,  "for 
a  man  to  be  brave  as  well  as  ambitious.  You  are 
sure  to  succeed;  and  I  shall  be  proud  of  you, 
for — for  you  saved  my  brother's  life,  you  see," 
she  timidly  added;  and  she  was  not  often  timid. 

Five  months  after,  when  the  Ruby  was  lying 
with  the  flag-ship  off  one  of  the  Marshall  Islands, 
a  packet  of  letters  was  brought  from  Fiji  by  a 
trading-schooner.  One  was  for  Commander  Dibbs. 
It  said  in  brief:  "You  saved  my  brother's  life — 
that  was  brave.  You  saved  his  honor — that  was 
noble.  He  has  told  me  all.  He  will  resign  and 
clear  you  when  the  Admiral  returns.  You  are  a 
good  man." 

"He  ought  to  be  kicked,"  Dibbs  said  to  him- 
self. "Did  the  cowardly  beggar  think  I  did  it 
for  him — blast  him!" 

He  raged  inwardly ;  but  he  soon  had  something 
else  to  think  of,  for  a  hurricane  came  down  on 
them  as  they  lay  in  a  trap  of  coral  with  only  one 
outlet,  which  the  Ruby  had  surveyed  that  day. 
He  took  his  ship  out  gallantly,  but  the  flag-ship 

98 


DIBBS.  R.N. 

dare  not  attempt  it — Dibbs  was  the  only  matt 
who  knew  the  passage  thoroughly.  He  man- 
aged to  land  on  the  shore  below  the  harbor,  and 
then,  with  a  rope  round  him,  essayed  to  reach 
the  flag-ship  from  the  beach.  It  was  a  wild 
chance,  but  he  got  there  badly  battered.  Still, 
he  took  her  with  her  Admiral  out  to  the  open 
safely. 

That  was  how  Dibbs  became  captain  of  a  great 
ironclad. 

Archie  Harman  did  not  resign ;  Dibbs  would  not 
let  him.  Only  Archie's  sister  knew  that  he  was 
responsible  for  the  accident  to  the  Ruby,  which 
nearly  cost  Dibbs  his  reputation ;  for  he  and  Dibbs 
had  surveyed  the  passage  in  the  Barrier  Reef  when 
serving  on  another  ship,  and  he  had  neglected 
instructions  and  wrongly  and  carelessly  interpreted 
the  chart.  And  Dibbs  had  held  his  tongue. 

One  evening  Laura  Harman  said  to  Captain 
Dibbs :  ' '  Which  would  you  rather  be — Admiral  of 
the  Fleet  or  my  husband  ? "  Her  hand  was  on  his 
arm  at  the  time. 

He  looked  up  at  her  proudly,  and  laughed 
slyly.  "I  mean  to  be  both,  dear  girl." 

"You  have  an  incurable  ambition,"  she  said. 


A  LITTLE  MASQUERADE 

"On,  nothing  matters,"  she  said,  with  a  soft, 
ironical  smile,  as  she  tossed  a  bit  of  sugar  to  the 
cockatoo. 

"Quite  so,"  was  his  reply,  and  he  carefully 
gathered  in  a  loose  leaf  of  his  cigar.  Then,  after 
a  pause:  "And  yet,  why  so?  It's  a  very  pretty 
world  one  way  and  another." 

"Yes,  it's  a  pretty  world  at  times." 

At  that  moment  they  were  both  looking  out 
over  a  part  of  the  world  known  as  the  Nindobar 
Plains,  and  it  was  handsome  to  the  eye.  As  far 
as  could  be  seen  was  a  carpet  of  flowers  under  a 
soft  sunset.  The  homestead  by  which  they  sat 
was  in  a  wilderness  of  blossoms.  To  the  left  was 
a  high  rose-colored  hill,  solemn  and  mysterious; 
to  the  right — afar  off — a  forest  of  gum-trees,  pink 
and  purple  against  the  horizon.  At  their  feet, 
beyond  the  veranda,  was  a  garden  joyously 
brilliant,  and  bright-plumaged  birds  flitted  here 
and  there. 

The  two  looked  out  for  a  long  time,  then,  as  if 
by  a  mutual  impulse,  suddenly  turned  their  eyes 
on  each  other.  They  smiled,  and,  somehow,  that 

IOO 


A  LITTLE  MASQUERADE 

smile  was  not  delightful  to  see.  The  girl  said, 
presently,  "It  is  all  on  the  surface." 

Jack  Sherman  gave  a  little  click  of  the  tongue, 
peculiar  to  him,  and  said,  "You  mean  that  the 
beautiful  birds  have  dreadful  voices;  that  the 
flowers  are  scentless;  that  the  leaves  of  the  trees 
are  all  on  edge  and  give  no  shade;  that  where 
that  beautiful  carpet  of  blossoms  is  there  was 
blazing  quartz  plain  six  months  ago,  and  there's 
likely  to  be  the  same  again;  that,  in  brief,  it's 
pretty,  but  hollow."  He  made  a  slight  fantastic 
gesture,  as  though  mocking  himself  for  so  long  a 
speech,  and  added,  "Really,  I  didn't  prepare  this 
little  oration." 

She  nodded,  and  then  said,  "Oh,  it's  not  so 
hollow — you  would  not  call  it  that  exactly — 
but  it's  unsatisfactory." 

"You  have  lost  your  illusions." 

"And  before  that  occurred  you  had  lost  yours." 

"Do  I  betray  it,  then?"  He  laughed,  not  at 
all  bitterly,  yet  not  with  cheerfulness. 

"And  do  you  think  that  you  have  such  acute- 
ness,  then,  and  I — "  Nellie  Hayden  paused, 
raised  her  eyebrows  a  little  coldly,  and  let  the 
cockatoo  bite  her  finger. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  be  egotistical.  The  fact 
is,  I  lived  my  life  alone,  and  I  was  interested  for 
the  moment  to  know  how  I  appeared  to  others. 
You  and  I  have  been  tolerably  candid  with  each 
other  since  we  met,  for  the  first  time,  three  days 
ago;  I  knew  you  would  not  hesitate  to  say  what 

IOI 


CUMNER'S  SON 

was  in  your  mind,  and  I  asked  out  of  honest 
curiosity.  One  fancies  one  hides  one's  self,  and 
yet — you  see!" 

"Do  you  find  it  pleasant,  then,  to  be  candid  and 
free  with  some  one?  .  .  .  Why  with  me?"  She 
looked  him  frankly  in  the  eyes. 

"Well,  to  be  more  candid.  You  and  I  know 
the  world  very  well,  I  fancy.  You  were  educated 
in  Europe,  travelled,  enjoyed — and  suffered."  The 
girl  did  not  even  blink,  but  went  on  looking  at 
him  steadily.  ' '  We  have  both  had  our  hour  with 
the  world;  have  learned  many  sides  of  the  game. 
We  haven't  come  out  of  it  without  scars  of  one 
kind  or  another.  Knowledge  of  the  kind  is  ex- 
pensive." 

"You  wanted  to  say  all  that  to  me  the  first 
evening  we  met,  didn't  you?"  There  was  a 
smile  of  gentle  amusement  on  her  face. 

"I  did.  From  the  moment  I  saw  you  I  knew 
that  we  could  say  many  things  to  each  other 
'without  preliminaries.'  To  be  able  to  do  that  is 
a  great  deal." 

"It  is  a  relief  to  say  things,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is  better  than  writing  them,  though  that 
is  pleasant,  after  its  kind." 

"I  have  never  tried  writing  —  as  we  talk. 
There's  a  good  deal  of  vanity  at  the  bottom  of 
it,  though,  I  believe." 

"Of  course.  But  vanity  is  a  kind  of  virtue, 
too."  He  leaned  over  toward  her,  dropping  his 
arms  on  his  knees  and  holding  her  look.  "I  am 

102 


A  LITTLE  MASQUERADE 

very  glad  that  I  met  you.  I  intended  only  stay- 
ing here  overnight,  but — " 

"But  I  interested  you  in  a  way — you  see,  I  am 
vain  enough  to  think  that.  Well,  you  also  in- 
terested me,  and  I  urged  my  aunt  to  press  you 
to  stay.  It  has  been  very  pleasant,  and  when 
you  go  it  will  be  very  humdrum  again;  our  con- 
versation, mustering,  rounding-up,  bullocks,  and 
rabbits.  That,  of  course,  is  engrossing  in  a  way, 
but  not  for  long  at  a  time." 

He  did  not  stir,  but  went  on  looking  at  her. 
"Yes,  I  believe  it  has  been  pleasant  for  you,  else 
it  had  not  been  so  pleasant  for  me.  Honestly,  I 
don't  believe  I  shall  ever  get  you  out  of  my  mind." 

"That  is  either  slightly  rude  or  badly  ex- 
pressed," she  said.  "Do  you  wish,  then,  to  get 
me  out  of  your  mind?" 

"No,  no —  You  are  very  keen.  I  wish  to 
remember  you  always.  But  what  I  felt  at  the 
moment  was  this :  There  are  memories  which  are 
always  passive  and  delightful.  We  have  no  wish 
to  live  the  scenes  of  which  they  are  over  again — the 
reflection  is  enough.  There  are  others  which  cause 
us  to  wish  the  scenes  back  again,  with  a  kind  of 
hunger ;  and  yet  they  won't  or  can't  come  back.  I 
wondered  of  what  class  this  memory  would  be." 

The  girl  flushed  ever  so  slightly,  and  her  fingers 
clasped  a  little  nervously,  but  she  was  calm.  Her 
voice  was  even;  it  had,  indeed,  a  little  thrilling 
ring  of  energy.  "You  are  wonderfully  daring," 
she  replied,  "to  say  that  to  me.  To  a  school -girl 

103 


CUMNER'S  SON 

it  might  mean  so  much;  to  me — !"  She  shook 
her  head  at  him  reprovingly. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  piqued.  "I  was  abso- 
lutely honest  in  that.  I  said  nothing  but  what  I 
felt.  I  would  give  very  much  to  feel  confident 
one  way  or  the  other — forgive  me,  for  what  seems 
incredible  egotism.  If  I  were  five  years  younger 
I  should  have  said  instantly  that  the  memory 
would  be  one — " 

"Which  would  disturb  you,  make  you  restless, 
cause  you  to  neglect  your  work,  fill  you  with  regret ; 
and  yet  all  too  late — isn't  that  it?"  She  laughed 
lightly  and  gave  a  lump  of  sugar  to  the  cockatoo. 

"You  read  me  accurately.  But  why  touch 
your  words  with  satire?" 

"I  believe  I  read  you  better  than  you  read  me. 
I  didn't  mean  to  be  satirical.  Don't  you  know 
that  what  often  seems  irony  directed  toward 
others  is  in  reality  dealt  out  to  ourselves?  Such 
irony  as  was  in  my  voice  was  for  myself." 

"And  why  for  yourself?"  he  asked,  quietly, 
his  eyes  full  of  interest.  He  was  cutting  the 
end  of  a  fresh  cigar.  "Was  it" — he  was  about 
to  strike  a  match,  but  paused  suddenly — "was  it 
because  you  had  thought  the  same  thing?" 

She  looked  for  a  moment  as  though  she  would 
read  him  through  and  through;  as  though,  in 
spite  of  all  their  candor,  there  was  some  lingering 
uncertainty  as  to  his  perfect  straightforwardness; 
then,  as  if  satisfied,  she  said  at  last:  "Yes,  but 
with  a  difference.  I  have  no  doubt  which  memory 

104 


A  LITTLE  MASQUERADE 

it  will  be.  You  will  not  wish  to  be  again  on  the 
plains  of  Nindobar." 

"And  you,"  he  said,  musingly — "you  will  not 
wish  me  here?"  There  was  no  real  vanity  in  the 
question.  He  was  wondering  how  little  we  can 
be  sure  of  what  we  shall  feel  to-morrow  from 
what  we  feel  to-day.  Besides,  he  knew  that  a 
wise  woman  is  wiser  than  a  wise  man. 

"I  really  don't  think  I  shall  care  particularly. 
Probably,  if  we  met  again  here,  there  would  be 
some  jar  to  our  comradeship — I  may  call  it  that, 
I  suppose?" 

"Which  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  good-bye 
in  most  cases,  and  always  in  cases  such  as  ours,  is 
a  little  tragical,  because  we  can  never  meet  quite 
the  same  again." 

She  bowed  her  head,  but  did  not  reply.  Pres- 
ently she  glanced  up  at  him  kindly.  "What 
would  you  give  to  have  back  the  past  you  had 
before  you  lost  your  illusions,  before  you  had — 
trouble?" 

"I  do  not  want  it  back.  I  am  not  really  dis- 
illusionized. I  think  that  we  should  not  make 
our  own  personal  experience  a  law  unto  the 
world.  I  believe  in  the  world  in  spite — of  trouble. 
You  might  have  said  trouble  with  a  woman — 
I  should  not  have  minded." 

He  was  smoking  now,  and  the  clouds  twisted 
about  his  face  so  that  only  his  eyes  looked  through 
earnestly. 

' '  A  woman  always  makes  laws  from  her  personal 
105 


CUMNER'S  SON 

experience.     She  has  not  the  faculty  of  generaliza- 
tion— I  fancy  that's  the  word  to  use." 

She  rose  now  with  a  little  shaking  motion,  one 
hand  at  her  belt,  and  rested  a  shoulder  against  a 
pillar  of  the  veranda.  He  rose  also  at  once,  and 
said,  touching  her  hand  respectfully  with  his 
finger-tips,  "We  may  be  sorry  one  day  that  we 
did  not  believe  in  ourselves  more." 

"Oh  no,"  she  said,  turning  and  smiling  at  him, 
"I  think  not.  You  will  be  in  England  hard  at 
work,  I  here  hard  at  living;  our  interests  will  lie 
far  apart.  I.  am  certain  about  it  all.  We  might 
have  been  what  my  cousin  calls  'trusty  pals' — 
no  more." 

"I  wish  to  God  I  felt  sure  of  that." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "I  believe  you 
are  honest  in  this.  I  expect  both  of  us  have 
played  hide-and-seek  with  sentiment  in  our  time; 
but  it  would  be  useless  for  us  to  masquerade 
with  each  other  —  we  are  of  the  world,  very 
worldly." 

"Quite  useless — here  comes  your  cousin!  I 
hope  I  don't  look  as  agitated  as  I  feel." 

"You  look  perfectly  cool,  and  I  know  I  do. 
What  an  art  this  living  is!  My  cousin  comes 
about  the  boar-hunt  to-morrow." 

"Shall  you  join  us?" 

"Of  course.  I  can  handle  a  rifle.  Besides,  it 
is  your  last  day  here." 

"Who  can  tell  what  to-morrow  may  bring 
forth?  "he  said. 

106 


A  LITTLE  MASQUERADE 

The  next  day  the  boar-hunt  occurred.  They 
rode  several  miles  to  a  little  lake  and  a  scrub  of 
brigalow,  and,  dismounting,  soon  had  exciting 
sport.  Nellie  was  a  capital  shot,  and,  without 
loss  of  any  womanliness,  was  a  thorough  sports- 
man. To-day,  however,  there  was  something  on 
her  mind,  and  she  was  not  as  alert  and  successful 
as  usual.  Sherman  kept  with  her  as  much  as 
possible — the  more  so  because  he  saw  that  her 
cousins,  believing  she  was  quite  well  able  to  take 
care  of  herself,  gave  her  to  her  own  resources. 
Presently,  however,  following  an  animal,  he  left 
her  a  distance  behind. 

On  the  edge  of  a  little  billabong  she  came  upon 
a  truculent  boar.  It  turned  on  her,  but  she  fired, 
and  it  fell.  Seeing  another  ahead,  she  pushed  on 
quickly  to  secure  it,  too.  As  she  went  she  half- 
cocked  her  rifle.  Had  her  mind  been  absolutely 
intent  on  the  sport,  she  had  full  cocked  it.  All 
at  once  she  heard  the  thud  of  feet  behind  her. 
She  turned  swiftly,  and  saw  the  boar  she  had 
shot  bearing  down  upon  her,  its  long,  yellow  tusks 
standing  up  like  daggers.  A  sweeping  thrust  from 
one  of  them  leaves  little  chance  of  life. 

She  dropped  upon  a  knee,  swung  her  rifle  to 
her  shoulder,  and  pulled  the  trigger.  The  rifle 
did  not  go  off.  For  an  instant  she  did  not  grasp 
the  trouble.  With  singular  presence  of  mind, 
however,  she  neither  lowered  her  rifle  nor  took 
her  eye  from  the  beast ;  she  remained  immovable. 
It  was  all  a  matter  of  seconds.  Evidently  cowed, 

107 


CUMNER'S  SON 

the  animal,  when  within  a  few  feet  of  her,  swerved 
to  the  right,  then  made  as  though  to  come  down 
on  her  again.  But,  meanwhile,  she  had  discov- 
ered her  mistake  and  cocked  her  rifle.  She  swiftly 
trained  it  on  the  boar,  and  fired.  It  was  hit,  but 
did  not  fall;  and  came  on.  Then  another  shot 
rang  out  from  behind  her,  and  the  boar  fell  so 
near  her  that  its  tusk  caught  her  dress. 

Jack  Sherman  had  saved  her. 

She  was  very  white  when  she  faced  him.  She 
could  not  speak.  That  night,  however,  she  spoke 
very  gratefully  and  almost  tenderly. 

To  something  that  he  said  gently  to  her  then 
about  a  memory,  she  replied,  "Tell  me  now  as 
candidly  as  if  to  your  own  soul,  did  you  feel  at 
the  critical  moment  that  life  would  be  horrible 
and  empty  without  me?" 

"I  thought  only  of  saving  you,"  he  said,  hon- 
estly. 

"Then  I  was  quite  right;  you  will  never  have 
any  regret,"  she  said. 

"I  wonder — ah,  I  wonder!"  he  added,  sorrow- 
fully. 

But  the  girl  was  sure. 

The  regret  was  hers;  though  he  never  knew 
that. 

It  is  a  lonely  life  on  the  dry  plains  of  Nindobar. 


DERELICT 

HE  was  very  drunk;  and  because  of  that  Vic- 
toria Lindley,  barmaid  at  O'Fallen's,  was  angry — 
not  at  him,  but  at  O'Fallen,  who  had  given  him 
the  liquor. 

She  knew  more  about  him  than  any  one  else. 
The  first  time  she  saw  him  he  was  not  sober. 
She  had  left  the  bar-room  empty;  and  when  she 
came  back  he  was  there  with  others  who  had 
dropped  in,  evidently  attracted  by  his  unusual 
appearance — he  wore  an  eye-glass — and  he  had 
been  saying  something  whimsically  audacious  to 
Dicky  Merritt,  who,  slapping  him  on  the  shoulder, 
had  asked  him  to  have  a  swizzle. 

Dicky  Merritt  had  a  ripe  sense  of  humor,  and 
he  was  the  first  to  grin.  This  was  followed  by 
loud  laughs  from  others,  and  these  laughs  went 
out  where  the  dust  lay  a  foot  thick  and  soft  like 
precipitated  velvet,  and,  hurrying  over  the  street, 
waked  the  Postmaster  and  roused  the  Little  Mil- 
liner, who  at  once  came  to  their  doors.  Catch- 
ing sight  of  each  other,  they  nodded,  and  blushed, 
and  nodded  again;  and  then  the  Postmaster,  neg- 
lecting the  business  of  the  country,  went  upon 

109 


CUMNER'S  SON 

his  own  business  into  the  private  sitting-room  of 
the  Little  Milliner;  for  those  wandering  laughs 
from  O' Fallen's  had  done  the  work  set  for  them 
by  the  high  powers. 

Over  in  the  hot  bar-room  the  man  with  the  eye- 
glass was  being  frankly  "intr'juced"  to  Dicky 
Merritt  and  Company,  Limited,  by  Victoria  Lind- 
ley,  who,  as  hostess  of  this  salon,  was,  in  his  eyes, 
on  a  footing  of  acquaintance.  To  her  he  raised 
his  hat  with  accentuated  form,  and  murmured  his 
name — 4 '  Mr.  Jones — Mr.  Jones !"  Forthwith,  that 
there  might  be  no  possible  unpleasantness — for 
even  such  hostesses  have  their  duties  of  tact — 
she  politely  introduced  him  as  Mr.  Jones. 

He  had  been  a  man  of  innumerable  occupations 
— nothing  long:  caretaker  of  tanks,  rabbit-trapper, 
boundary-rider,  cook  at  a  shearers'  camp,  and  in 
due  time  he  became  bookkeeper  at  O'Fallen's. 
That  was  due  to  Vic.  Mr.  Jones  wrote  a  very 
fine  hand — not  in  the  least  like  a  business  man — 
when  he  was  moderately  sober,  and  he  also  had 
an  exceedingly  caustic  wit  when  he  chose  to  use 
it.  He  used  it  once  upon  O'Fallen,  who  was  a 
rough,  mannerless  creature,  with  a  good-enough 
heart,  but  easily  irritated  by  the  man  with  the 
eye-glass,  whose  superior  intellect  and  manner, 
even  when  drunk,  were  too  noticeable.  He  would 
never  have  employed  him  were  it  not  for  Vic, 
who  was  worth  very  much  money  to  him  in  the 
course  of  the  year.  She  was  the  most  important 
person  within  a  radius  of  a  hundred  and  fifty 

no 


DERELICT 

miles,  not  excepting  Rembrandt,  the  owner  of 
Bomba  Station,  which  was  twenty  miles  square, 
nor  the  parson  at  Magari,  ninety  miles  south,  by 
the  Ring-Tail  Billabong.  For  both  Rembrandt 
and  the  parson  had,  and  showed,  a  respect  for 
her  which  might  appear  startling  were  it  seen  in 
Berkeley  Square  or  the  Strand. 

When,  therefore,  O' Fallen  came  raging  into  the 
bar-room  one  morning,  with  the  gentle  remark 
that  "he'd  roast  the  tongue  of  her  fancy  gent  if 
he  didn't  get  up  and  git,"  he  did  a  foolish  thing. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  he  had  insulted  Victoria, 
and  it  was  the  last.  She  came  out  white  and 
quiet  from  behind  the  bar-counter,  and,  as  he 
retreated  from  her  into  a  corner,  said,  "There  is 
not  a  man  who  drinks  over  this  bar,  or  puts  his 
horse  into  your  shed,  who  wouldn't  give  you  the 
lie  to  that  and  thrash  you  as  well — you  coward!" 
Her  words  came  on  low  and  steady,  "Mr.  Jones 
will  go  now,  of  course,  but  I  shall  go  also." 

This  awed  O'Fallen.  To  lose  Vic  was  to  lose 
the  reputation  of  his  house.  He  instantly  re- 
pented, but  she  turned  her  shoulder  on  him,  and 
went  into  the  little,  hot  office,  where  the  book- 
keeper was,  leaving  him  gesticulating  as  he  swore 
at  himself  in  the  glass  behind  the  bar.  When  she 
entered  the  room  she  found  Mr.  Jones  sitting  rigid 
on  his  stool,  looking  at  the  open  ledger  before  him. 
She  spoke  his  name.  He  nodded  ever  so  slightly, 
but  still  looked  hard  at  the  book.  She  knew  his 
history.  Once  he  had  told  it  to  her.  It  hap- 
8  in 


CUMNER'S  SON 

pened  one  day  when  he  had  resigned  his  posi- 
tion as  boundary-rider,  in  which  he  was  prac- 
tically useless.  He  had  been  drinking,  and,  as 
he  felt  for  the  string  of  his  eye-glass,  his  fingers 
caught  another  thin  black  cord  which  protruded 
slightly  from  his  vest.  He  drew  it  out  by  mis- 
take, and  a  small  gold  cross  shone  for  a  moment 
against  the  faded  black  coat.  His  fingers  felt 
for  it  to  lift  it  to  his  eye  as  though  it  were  his  eye- 
glass, but  dropped  it  suddenly.  He  turned  pale 
for  a  minute,  then  caught  it  as  suddenly  again, 
and  thrust  it  into  his  waistcoat.  But  Vic  had 
seen,  and  she  had  very  calm,  intelligent  eyes,  and 
a  vast  deal  of  common  sense,  though  she  had  only 
come  from  out  Tibbooburra  way.  She  kept  her 
eyes  on  him  kindly,  knowing  that  he  would  speak 
in  time.  They  were  alone,  for  most  of  the  people 
of  Wadgery  were  away  at  a  picnic.  There  is  al- 
ways one  moment  when  a  man  who  has  a  secret, 
good  or  bad,  fatal  or  otherwise,  feels  that  he 
must  tell  it  or  die.  And  Mr.  Jones  told  Vic,  and 
she  said  what  she  could,  though  she  knew  that  a 
grasp  of  her  firm  hands  was  better  than  any 
words ;  and  she  was  equally  sure  in  her  own  mind 
that  word  and  grasp  would  be  of  no  avail  in  the 
end. 

She  saw  that  the  beginning  of  the  end  had  come 
as  she  looked  at  him  staring  at  the  ledger,  yet 
exactly  why  she  could  not  tell.  She  knew  that  he 
had  been  making  a  fight  since  he  had  been  book- 
keeper, and  that  now  he  felt  that  he  had  lost. 

112 


DERELICT 

She  guessed  also  that  he  had  heard  what  O' Fallen 
said  to  her,  and  what  she  had  replied. 

"You  ought  not  to  have  offended  him,"  she 
tried  to  say,  severely. 

"It  had  to  come,"  he  said,  with  a  dry,  crack- 
ling laugh,  and  he  fastened  his  eye-glass  in  his  eye. 
"I  wasn't  made  for  this.  I  could  only  do  one 
thing,  and — "  He  laughed  that  peculiar  laugh 
again,  got  down  from  the  stool,  and  held  out  his 
hand  to  her. 

"What  do  you  intend?"  she  said. 

"I'm  going,  of  course.     Good-bye!" 

"But  not  at  once?"  she  said,  very  kindly. 

"Perhaps  not  just  at  once,"  he  answered,  with 
a  strange  smile. 

She  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do ;  there  are 
puzzling  moments  even  for  a  wise  woman,  and 
there  is  nothing  wiser  than  that. 

He  turned  at  the  door.  "God  bless  you!"  he 
said.  Then,  as  if  caught  in  an  act  to  be  atoned 
for,  he  hurried  out  into  the  street.  From  the 
door  she  watched  him  till  the  curtains  of  dust 
rose  up  about  him  and  hid  him  from  sight.  When 
he  came  back  to  Wadgery  months  after  he  was  a 
terrible  wreck;  so  much  so  that  Vic  could  hardly 
look  at  him  at  first ;  and  she  wished  that  she  had 
left  O'Fallen's  as  she  threatened,  and  so  have  no 
need  to  furnish  any  man  swizzles.  She  knew  he 
would  never  pull  himself  together  now.  It  was 
very  weak  of  him,  and  horrible,  but  then  .  .  .! 
When  that  thirst  gets  into  the  blood,  and  there's 

"3 


CUMNER'S  SON 

something  behind  the  man's  life  too — as  Dicky 
Merritt  said,  "It's  a  case  for  the  little  black 
angels." 

Vic  would  not  give  him  liquor.  He  got  it,  how- 
ever, from  other  sources.  He  was  too  far  gone 
to  feel  any  shame  now.  His  sensibilities  were  all 
blunted.  One  day  he  babbled  over  the  bar- 
counter  to  O' Fallen,  desiring  greatly  that  they 
should  be  reconciled.  To  that  end  he  put  down 
the  last  shilling  he  had  for  a  swizzle,  and  was  so 
outrageously  offended  when  O'Fallen  refused  to 
take  it,  that  the  silver  was  immediately  swept 
into  the  till;  and  very  soon,  with  his  eye-glass  to 
his  eye,  Mr.  Jones  was  drunk. 

That  was  the  occasion  mentioned  in  the  first 
sentence  of  this  history,  when  Vic  was  very  angry. 

The  bar-room  was  full.  Men  were  wondering 
why  it  was  that  the  Postmaster  and  the  Little 
Milliner,  who  went  to  Magari  ten  days  before,  to 
get  married  by  the  parson  there,  had  not  returned. 
While  they  talked  and  speculated,  the  weekly 
coach  from  Magari  came  up  slowly  to  the  door, 
and,  strange  to  say,  without  a  blast  from  the 
driver's  horn.  Dicky  Merritt  and  Company 
rushed  out  to  ask  news  of  the  two  truants,  and 
were  met  with  a  warning  wave  of  the  driver's 
hand,  and  a  "Sh — h!  sh —  !"  as  he  motioned 
toward  the  inside  of  the  coach.  There  they  found 
the  Postmaster  and  the  Little  Milliner  mere  skele- 
tons, and  just  alive.  They  were  being  cared  for 
by  a  bushman,  who  had  found  them  in  the  plains 

114 


DERELICT 

delirious  and  nearly  naked.  They  had  got  lost, 
there  being  no  regular  road  over  the  plains,  and 
their  horse,  which  they  had  not  tethered  proper- 
ly, had  gone  large.  They  had  been  days  without 
food  and  water  when  they  were  found  near  the 
coach-track. 

They  were  carried  into  0' Fallen's  big  sitting- 
room.  Dicky  brought  the  doctor,  who  said  that 
they  both  would  die,  and  soon.  Hours  passed. 
The  sufferers  at  last  became  sane  and  conscious, 
as  though  they  could  not  go  without  something 
being  done.  The  Postmaster  lifted  a  hand  to  his 
pocket.  Dicky  Merritt  took  out  of  it  a  paper. 
It  was  the  marriage  licence.  The  Little  Milliner's 
eyes  were  painful  to  see ;  she  was  not  dying  happy. 
The  Postmaster,  too,  moved  his  head  from  side 
to  side  in  trouble.  He  reached  over  and  took  her 
hand.  She  drew  it  back,  shuddering  a  little. 
"The  ring!  The  ring!"  she  whispered. 

"It  is  lost,"  he  said. 

Vic,  who  was  at  the  woman's  head,  understood. 
She  stooped,  said  something  in  her  ear,  then  in  that 
of  the  Postmaster,  and  left  the  room.  When  she 
came  back,  two  minutes  later,  Mr.  Jones  was  with 
her.  What  she  had  done  to  him  to  sober  him  no 
one  ever  knew.  But  he  had  a  book  in  his  hand, 
and  on  the  dingy  black  of  his  waistcoat  there  shone 
a  little  gold  cross.  He  came  to  where  the  two 
lay.  Vic  drew  from  her  finger  a  ring.  What 
then  occurred  was  never  forgotten  by  any  who 
saw  it;  and  you  could  feel  the  stillness,  it  was  so 


CUMNER'S  SON 

great,  after  a  high,  sing-song  voice  said:  "Those 
whom  God  hath  joined  let  no  man  put  asunder." 

The  two  lying  cheek  by  cheek  knew  now  that 
they  could  die  in  peace. 

The  sing-song  voice  rose  again  in  the  ceremony 
of  blessing,  but  suddenly  it  quavered  and  broke, 
the  man  rose,  dropping  the  prayer-book  to  the 
floor,  and  ran  quickly  out  of  the  room  and  into  the 
dust  of  the  street,  and  on,  on  into  the  plains. 

"In  the  name  of  God,  who  is  he?"  said  Dicky 
Merritt  to  Victoria  Lindley. 

"He  was  the  Rev.  Jones  Leverton,  of  Harford- 
on-Thames,"  was  her  reply. 

"Once  a  priest,  always  a* priest,"  added  Dicky. 

"He'll  never  come  back,"  said  the  girl,  tears 
dropping  from  her  eyes. 

And  she  was  right. 


OLD  ROSES 

IT  was  a  barren  country,  and  Wadgery  was 
generally  shrivelled  with  heat,  but  he  always  had 
roses  in  his  garden,  on  his  window-sill,  or  in  his 
buttonhole.  Growing  flowers  under  difficulties 
was  his  recreation.  That  was  why  he  was  called 
Old  Roses.  It  was  not  otherwise  inapt,  for  there 
was  something  antique  about  him,  though  he 
wasn't  old;  a  flavor,  an  old-fashioned  repose  and 
self-possession.  He  was  Inspector  of  Tanks  for 
this  God-forsaken  country.  Apart  from  his  duties 
he  kept  mostly  to  himself,  though  when  not 
travelling  he  always  went  down  to  O'Fallen's 
Hotel  once  a  day  for  a  glass  of  whiskey  and  water 
— whiskey  kept  especially  for  him ;  and  as  he  drank 
this  slowly  he  talked  to  Victoria  Lindley  the  bar- 
maid, or  to  any  chance  visitors  whom  he  knew. 
He  never  drank  with  any  one,  nor  asked  any  one 
to  drink;  and,  strange  to  say,  no  one  resented 
this.  As  Vic  said,  "He  was  different."  Dicky 
Merritt,  the  solicitor,  who  was  hail-fellow  with 
squatter,  homestead  lessee,  cockatoo-farmer,  and 
shearer,  called  him  "a  lively  old  buffer."  It  was 
he,  indeed,  who  gave  him  the  name  of  Old  Roses. 

117 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Dicky  sometimes  went  over  to  Long  Neck  Billa- 
bong,  where  Old  Roses  lived,  for  a  reel,  as  he  put 
it,  and  he  always  carried  away  a  deep  impression 
of  the  Inspector's  qualities. 

"Had  his  day,"  said  Dicky,  in  O'Fallen's  sitting- 
room  one  night,  "in  marble  halls,  or  I'm  a  Jack. 
Run  neck  and  neck  with  almighty  swells  once. 
Might  live  here  for  a  thousand  years  and  he'd  still 
be  the  nonsuch  of  the  back-blocks.  I'd  patent 
him — file  my  caveat  for  him  to-morrow  if  I  could, 
bully  Old  Roses!" 

Victoria  Lindley,  the  barmaid,  lifted  her  chin 
slightly  from  her  hands,  as  she  leaned  through  the 
opening  between  the  bar  and  the  sitting-room, 
and  said:  "Mr.  Merritt,  Old  Roses  is  a  gentleman; 
and  a  gentleman  is  a  gentleman  till  he — " 

"Till  he  humps  his  bluey  into  the  Never  Never 
Land,  Vic?  But  what  do  you  know  about 
gentlemen,  anyway?  You  were  born  only  five 
miles  from  the  jumping-off  place,  my  dear." 

"Oh,"  was  the  quiet  reply,  "a  woman — the 
commonest  woman — knows  a  gentleman  by  in- 
stinct. It  isn't  what  they  do,  it's  what  they  don't 
do;  and  Old  Roses  doesn't  do  lots  of  things." 

"Right  you  are,  Victoria,  right  you  are  again! 
You  do  Tibbooburra  credit.  Old  Roses  has  the 
root  of  the  matter  in  him — and  there  you  have 
it." 

Dicky  had  a  profound  admiration  for  Vic.  She 
had  brains,  was  perfectly  fearless,  no  man  had 
ever  taken  a  liberty  with  her,  and  every  one  in  the 

118 


OLD  ROSES 

Wadgery  country  who  visited  O'Fallen's  had  a 
wholesome  respect  for  her  opinion. 

About  this  time  news  came  that  'Jie  Governor, 
Lord  Malice,  would  pass  through  Wadgery  on  his 
tour  up  the  back-blocks.  A  great  function  was 
necessary.  It  was  arranged.  Then  came  the 
question  of  the  address  of  welcome  to  be  delivered 
at  the  banquet.  Dicky  Merritt  and  the  local 
doctor  were  named  for  the  task,  but  they  both 
declared  they'd  only  "make  rot  of  it,"  and  sug- 
gested Old  Roses. 

They  went  to  lay  the  thing  before  him.  They 
found  him  in  his  garden.  He  greeted  them,  smil- 
ing in  his  quiet,  enigmatical  way,  and  listened. 
While  Dicky  spoke,  a  flush  slowly  passed  over  him, 
and  then  immediately  left  him  pale;  but  he  stood 
perfectly  still,  his  hand  leaning  against  a  sandal- 
tree,  and  the  coldness  of  his  face  warmed  up  again 
slowly.  His  head  having  been  bent  attentively 
as  he  listened,  they  did  not  see  anything  unusual. 

After  a  moment  of  inscrutable  deliberation,  he 
answered  that  he  would  do  as  they  wished.  Dicky 
hinted  that  he  would  require  some  information 
about  Lord  Malice's  past  career  and  his  family's 
history,  but  he  assured  them  that  he  did  not  need 
it;  and  his  eyes  idled  ironically  with  Dicky's  face. 

When  the  two  had  gone,  Old  Roses  sat  in  his 
room,  a  handful  of  letters,  a  photograph,  and  a 
couple  of  decorations  spread  out  before  him,  his 
ringers  resting  on  them,  his  look  engaged  with  a 
far  horizon. 

119 


CUMNER'S  SON 

The  Governor  came.  He  was  met  outside  the 
township  by  the  citizens  and  escorted  in — a  dusty 
and  numerous  cavalcade.  They  passed  the  In- 
spector's house.  The  garden  was  blooming,  and 
on  the  roof  a  flag  was  flying.  Struck  by  the 
singular  character  of  the  place,  Lord  Malice  asked 
who  lived  there,  and  proposed  stopping  for  a 
moment  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  its  owner; 
adding,  with  some  slight  sarcasm,  that  if  the 
officers  of  the  Government  were  too  busy  to  pay 
their  respects  to  their  Governor,  their  Governor 
must  pay  his  respects  to  them.  But  Old  Roses 
was  not  in  the  garden  nor  in  the  house,  and  they 
left  without  seeing  him.  He  was  sitting  under  a 
willow  at  the  billabong,  reading  over  and  over  to 
himself  the  address  to  be  delivered  before  the 
Governor  in  the  evening.  As  he  read  his  face  had 
a  wintry  and  inhospitable  look. 

The  night  came.  Old  Roses  entered  the  dining- 
room  quietly  with  the  crowd,  far  in  the  Governor's 
wake.  According  to  his  request,  he  was  given  a 
seat  in  a  distant  corner,  where  he  was  quite  incon- 
spicuous. Most  of  the  men  present  were  in 
evening  dress.  He  wore  a  plain  tweed  suit,  but 
carried  a  handsome  rose  in  his  buttonhole.  It 
was  impossible  to  put  him  at  a  disadvantage.  He 
looked  distinguished  as  he  was,  He  appeared  to 
be  much  interested  in  Lord  Malice.  The  early 
proceedings  were  cordial,  for  the  Governor  and 
his  suite  made  themselves  agreeable,  and  talk 
flowed  amiably.  After  a  time  there  was  a  rattle  of 

1 20 


OLD  ROSES 

knives  and  forks,  and  the  Chairman  rose.  Then, 
after  a  chorus  of  "hear,  hears,"  there  was  general 
silence.  The  doorways  of  the  room  were  filled 
by  the  women-servants  of  the  hotel.  Chief  among 
them  was  Vic,  who  kept  her  eyes  fixed  on  Old 
Roses.  She  knew  that  he  was  to  read  the  address 
and  speak,  and  she  was  more  interested  in  him 
and  in  his  success  than  in  Lord  Malice  and  his 
suite.  Her  admiration  of  him  was  great.  He 
had  always  treated  her  as  though  she  had  been 
born  a  lady,  and  it  had  done  her  good. 

"And  I  call  upon  Mr.  Adam  Sherwood  to  speak 
to  the  health  of  His  Excellency,  Lord  Malice." 

In  his  modest  corner  Old  Roses  stretched  to  his 
feet.  The  Governor  glanced  over  carelessly.  He 
only  saw  a  figure  in  gray,  with  a  rose  in  his  button- 
hole. The  Chairman  whispered  that  it  was  the 
owner  of  the  house  and  garden  which  had  in- 
terested His  Excellency  that  afternoon.  His  Ex- 
cellency looked  a  little  closer,  but  saw  only  a  rim 
of  iron-gray  hair  above  the  paper  held  before  Old 
Roses'  face. 

Then  a  voice  came  from  behind  the  paper: 
"Your  Excellency — " 

At  the  first  words  the  Governor  started,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  searchingly,  curiously  at  the  paper 
that  walled  the  face,  and  at  the  iron-gray  hair. 
The  voice  rose  distinct  and  clear,  with  modulated 
emphasis.  It  had  a  peculiarly  penetrating  quali- 
ty. A  few  in  the  room — and  particularly  Vic- 
were  struck  by  something  in  the  voice:  that  it 

121 


CUMNER'S  SON 

resembled  another  voice.  She  soon  found  the 
trail.  Her  eyes  also  fastened  on  the  paper.  Then 
she  moved  and  went  to  another  door.  Here  she 
could  see  behind  the  paper  at  an  angle.  Her  eyes 
ran  from  the  screened  face  to  that  of  the  Governor. 
His  Excellency  had  dropped  the  lower  part  of  his 
face  in  his  hand,  and  he  was  listening  intently. 
Vic  noticed  that  his  eyes  were  painfully  grave 
and  concerned.  She  also  noticed  other  things. 

The  address  was  strange.  It  had  been  sub- 
mitted to  the  Committee,  and  though  it  struck 
them  as  out-of-the-wayish,  it  had  been  approved. 
It  seemed  different  when  read  as  Old  Roses  was 
reading  it.  The  words  sounded  inclement  as  they 
were  chiselled  out  by  the  speaker's  voice.  Dicky 
Merritt  afterward  declared  that  many  phrases 
were  interpolated  by  Old  Roses  at  the  moment. 

The  speaker  referred  intimately  and  with  pe- 
culiar knowledge  to  the  family  history  of  Lord 
Malice,  to  certain  more  or  less  private  matters 
which  did  not  concern  the  public,  to  the  antiquity 
of  the  name,  and  the  high  duty  devolving  upon 
one  who  bore  the  Earldom  of  Malice.  He  dwelt 
upon  the  personal  character  of  His  Excellency's 
antecedents,  and  praised  their  honorable  services 
to  the  country.  He  referred  to  the  death  of  Lord 
Malice's  eldest  brother  in  Burmah,  but  he  did  it 
strangely.  Then,  with  acute  incisiveness,  he 
drew  a  picture  of  what  a  person  in  so  exalted  a 
position  as  a  Governor  should  be  and  should  not 
be.  His  voice  assuredly  at  this  point  had  a  touch 

122 


OLD  ROSES 

of  scorn.  The  aides-de-camp  were  nervous,  the 
Chairman  apprehensive,  the  Committee  ill  at  ease. 
But  the  Governor  now  was  perfectly  still,  though, 
as  Vic  Lindley  thought,  rather  pinched  and  old- 
looking.  His  fingers  toyed  with  a  wine-glass,  but 
his  eyes  never  wavered  from  that  paper  and  the 
gray  hair. 

Presently  the  voice  of  the  speaker  changed. 

"But,"  said  he,  "in  Lord  Malice  we  have — the 
perfect  Governor;  a  man  of  blameless  and  en- 
viable life,  and  possessed  abundantly  of  discreet- 
ness, judgment,  administrative  ability,  and  power; 
the  absolute  type  of  English  nobility  and  British 
character." 

He  dropped  the  paper  from  before  his  face,  and 
his  eyes  met  those  of  the  Governor,  and  stayed. 
Lord  Malice  let  go  a  long,  choking  breath,  which 
sounded  like  immeasurable  relief.  During  the  rest 
of  the  speech — delivered  in  a  fine-tempered  voice 
— he  sat  as  in  a  dream,  his  eyes  intently  upon  the 
other,  who  now  seemed  to  recite  rather  than  read. 
He  thrilled  all  by  the  pleasant  resonance  of  his 
tones,  and  sent  the  blood  aching  delightfully 
through  Victoria  Lindley 's  veins. 

When  he  sat  down  there  was  immense  ap- 
plause. The  Governor  rose  in  reply.  He  spoke 
in  a  low  voice,  but  any  one  listening  outside  would 
have  said  that  Old  Roses  was  still  speaking.  By 
this  resemblance  the  girl,  Vic,  had  trailed  to 
others.  It  was  now  apparent  to  many,  but  Dicky 
said  afterward  that  it  was  simply  a  case  of  birth 

123 


CUMNER'S  SON 

and  breeding — men  used  to  walking  red  carpet  grew 
alike,  just  as  stud-owners  and  rabbit-catchers  did. 

The  last  words  of  the  Governor's  reply  were 
delivered  in  a  convincing  tone  as  his  eyes  hung 
on  Old  Roses'  face.  "And,  as  I  am  indebted  to 
you,  gentlemen,  for  the  feelings  of  loyalty  to  the 
Throne  which  prompted  this  reception  and  the 
address  just  delivered,  so  I  am  indebted  to  Mr. 
— Adam  Sherwood  for  his  admirable  words  and 
the  unusual  sincerity  and  eloquence  of  his  speech ; 
and  to  both  you  and  him  for  most  notable  kind- 
ness." 

Immediately  after  the  Governor's  speech  Old 
Roses  stole  out;  but  as  he  passed  through  the 
door  where  Vic  stood,  his  hand  brushed  against 
hers.  Feeling  its  touch,  he  grasped  it  eagerly  for 
an  instant,  as  though  he  were  glad  of  the  friendli- 
ness in  her  eyes. 

It  was  just  before  dawn  of  the  morning  that  the 
Governor  knocked  at  the  door  of  the  house  by 
Long  Neck  Billabong.  The  door  opened  at  once, 
and  he  entered  without  a  word. 

He  and  Old  Roses  stood  face  to  face.  His 
countenance  was  drawn  and  worn,  the  other's  cold 
and  calm. 

"Tom,  Tom,"  Lord  Malice  said,  "we  thought 
you  were  dead— 

"That  is,  Edward,  having  left  me  to  my  fate  in 
Burmah — you  were  only  half  a  mile  away  with  a 
column  of  stout  soldiers  and  hillmen — you  waited 
till  my  death  was  reported,  and  seemed  assured, 

124 


OLD  ROSES 

and  then  came  on  to  England:  to  take  the  title, 
just  vacant  by  our  father's  death,  and  to  marry 
my  intended  wife,  who,  God  knows,  appeared  to 
have  little  care  which  brother  it  was!  You  got 
both.  I  was  long  a  prisoner.  When  I  got  free 
I  learned  all;  I  bided  my  time.  I  was  waiting 
till  you  had  a  child.  Twelve  years  have  gone; 
you  have  no  child.  But  I  shall  spare  you  awhile 
longer.  If  your  wife  should  die,  or  you  should 
yet  have  a  child,  I  shall  return." 

The  Governor  lifted  his  head  wearily  from  the 
table  where  he  now  sat.  "Tom,"  he  said,  in  a 
low,  heavy  voice,  "I  was  always  something  of  a 
scoundrel,  but  I've  repented  of  that  thing  every 
day  of  my  life  since.  It  has  been  knives — knives 
all  the  way.  I  am  glad — I  can't  tell  you  how 
glad — that  you  are  alive." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  with  a  motion  of 
great  relief.  "I  was  afraid  you  were  going  to 
speak  to-night — to  tell  all,  even  though  I  was 
your  brother.  You  spared  me  for  the  sake — ' 

"For  the  sake  of  the  family  name,"  the  other 
interjected,  stonily. 

"For  the  sake  of  our  name.  But  I  would  have 
taken  my  punishment  in  thankfulness,  because 
you  are  alive." 

"Taken  it  like  a  man,  your  Excellency,"  was  the 
low  rejoinder.  He  laughed  bitterly. 

"You  will  not  wipe  the  thing  out,  Tom?  You 
will  not  wipe  it  out,  and  come  back,  and  take 
your  own — now?"  said  the  other,  anxiously. 

125 


CUMNER'S  SON 

The  other  dried  the  perspiration  from  his  fore- 
head. 

"I  will  come  back  in  my  own  time;  and  it 
can  never  be  wiped  out.  For  you  shook  all  my 
faith  in  my  old  world.  That's  the  worst  thing 
that  can  happen  a  man.  I  only  believe  in  the 
very  common  people  now — those  who  are  not 
put  upon  their  honor.  One  doesn't  expect  it  of 
them,  and,  unlikely  as  it  is,  one  isn't  often  de- 
ceived. I  think  we'd  better  talk  no  more  about 
it." 

"You  mean  I  had  better  go." 

"I  think  so.  I  am  going  to  marry  soon."  The 
other  started  nervously.  "You  needn't  be  so 
shocked.  I  will  come  back  one  day,  but  not  till 
your  wife  dies,  or  you  have  a  child,  as  I  said." 

The  Governor  rose  to  his  feet,  and  went  to  the 
door.  "Whom  do  you  intend  marrying?"  he 
asked  in  a  voice  far  from  vice-regal,  only  humbled 
and  disturbed.  The  reply  was  instant  and  keen: 
'  A  barmaid." 

The  other's  hand  dropped  from  the  door.  But 
Old  Roses,  passing  over,  opened  it,  and,  waiting 
for  the  other  to  pass  through,  said:  "I  do  not 
doubt  but  there  will  be  issue.  Good-day,  my 
lord!" 

The  Governor  passed  out  from  the  pale  light 
of  the  lamp  into  the  gray  and  moist  morning.  He 
turned  at  a  point  where  the  house  would  be  lost 
to  view,  and  saw  the  other  still  standing  there. 
The  voice  of  Old  Roses  kept  ringing  in  his  ears 

126 


OLD  ROSES 

sardonically.     He  knew  that  his  punishment  must 
go  on  and  on ;  and  it  did. 

Old  Roses  married  Victoria  Lindley  from  "out 
Tibbooburra  way,"  and  there  was  comely  issue, 
and  that  issue  is  now  at  Eton ;  for  Esau  came  into 
his  birthright,  as  he  said  he  would,  at  his  own  time. 
But  he  and  his  wife  have  a  way  of  being  indifferent 
to  the  gay,  astonished  world;  and,  uncommon  as 
it  may  seem,  he  has  not  tired  of  her. 

9 


MY  WIFE'S  LOVERS 

THERE  were  three  of  them  in  1886,  the  big 
drought  year:  old  Eversofar,  Billy  Marshall,  and 
Bingong.  I  never  was  very  jealous  of  them,  not 
even  when  Billy  gave  undoubted  ground  for 
divorce  by  kissing  her  boldly  in  the  front  garden, 
with  Eversofar  and  Bingong  looking  on — to  say 
nothing  of  myself.  So  far  as  public  opinion  went 
it  could  not  matter,  because  we  were  all  living  at 
Tilbar  Station  in  the  Tibbooburra  country,  and 
the  nearest  neighbor  to  us  was  Mulholland  of 
Nimgi,  a  hundred  miles  away.  Billy  was  the 
son  of  my  manager,  John  Marshall,  and,  like  his 
father,  had  an  excellent  reputation  as  a  bushman, 
and,  like  his  mother,  was  very  good-looking.  He 
was  very  much  indeed  about  my  house,  suggesting 
improvements  in  household  arrangements;  mak- 
ing remarks  on  my  wife's  personal  appearance — 
with  corresponding  disparagement  of  myself ;  rid- 
ing with  my  wife  across  the  plains;  shooting 
kangaroos  with  her  by  night;  and  secretly  in- 
structing her  in  the  mysteries  of  a  rabbit-trap, 
with  which,  he  was  sure,  he  could  make  "dead 
loads  of  metal"  (he  was  proficient  in  the  argot  of 

128 


MY  WIFE'S  LOVERS 

the  back-blocks) ;  and  with  this  he  would  buy 
her  a  beautiful  diamond  ring,  and  a  horse  that 
had  won  the  Melbourne  Cup,  and  an  air-gun! 
Once  when  she  was  taken  ill,  and  I  was  away  in 
the  South,  he  used  to  sit  by  her  bedside,  fanning 
her  hour  after  hour,  being  scarcely  willing  to 
sleep  at  night ;  and  was  always  on  hand,  smoothing 
her  pillow,  and  issuing  a  bulletin  to  Eversofar  and 
Bingong  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.  I  have 
no  doubt  that  Eversofar  and  Bingong  cared  for 
her  just  as  much  as  he  did ;  but,  from  first  to  last, 
they  never  had  his  privileges,  and  were  always 
subordinate  to  him  in  showing  her  devotion.  He 
was  sound  and  frank  with  them.  He  told  Everso- 
far that,  of  course,  she  only  was  kind  to  him,  and 
let  him  have  a  hut  all  to  himself,  because  he  was 
old  and  had  had  a  bad  time  out  on  the  farthest 
back-station  (that  was  why  he  was  called  Everso- 
far), and  had  once  carried  Bingong  with  a  broken 
leg,  on  his  back,  for  twenty  miles.  As  for  Bin- 
gong, he  was  only  a  black  fellow,  aged  fifteen,  and 
height  inconsiderable.  So,  of  the  three,  Billy  had 
his  own  way,  and  even  shamelessly  attempted  to 
lord  it  over  me. 

Most  husbands  would  consider  my  position  pain- 
ful, particularly  when  I  say  that  my  wife  accepted 
the  attention  of  all  three  lovers  with  calm  pleasure, 
and  that  of  Billy  with  a  shocking  indifference  to 
my  feelings.  She  never  tried  to  explain  away  any 
circumstance,  no  matter  how  awkward  it  might 
look  if  put  down  in  black  and  white.  Billy  never 

129 


CUMNER'S  SON 

quailed  before  my  look;  he  faced  me  down  with 
his  ingenuous  smile;  he  patted  me  on  the  arms 
approvingly ;  or,  with  apparent  malice,  asked  me 
questions  difficult  to  answer,  when  I  came  back 
from  a  journey  to  Brisbane — for  a  man,  naturally, 
finds  it  hard  to  lay  bare  how  he  spent  all  his  time 
in  town.  Because  he  did  it  so  suavely  and 
naively,  one  could  not  be  resentful.  It  might 
seem  that  matters  had  reached  a  climax,  when,  one 
day,  Mulholland  came  over,  and,  seeing  my  wife 
and  her  lovers  together  watering  the  garden  and 
teaching  cockatoos,  said  to  me  that  Billy  had  the 
advantage  of  me  .on  my  own  ground.  It  may 
not  be  to  my  credit  that  I  only  grinned,  and 
forbore  even  looking  foolish.  Yet  I  was  very  fond 
of  my  wife  all  the  time.  We  stood  pretty  high 
on  the  Charwon  Downs,  and  though  it  was 
terribly  hot  at  times,  it  was  healthy  enough ;  and 
she  never  lost  her  prettiness,  though,  maybe, 
she  lacked  bloom. 

I  think  I  never  saw  her  look  better  than  she 
did  that  day  when  Mulholland  was  with  me.  She 
had  on  the  lightest,  softest  kind  of  stuff,  with 
sleeves  reaching  only  a  little  below  her  elbow — 
her  hands  and  arms  never  got  sunburnt  in  the 
hottest  weather — her  face  smiled  out  from  under 
the  coolest-looking  hat  imaginable,  and  her  hair, 
though  gathered,  had  a  happy  trick  of  always 
lying  very  loose  and  free  about  the  head,  saving 
her  from  any  primness  otherwise  possible,  she 
was  so  neat.  Mulholland  and  I  were  sitting  in 

130 


MY  WIFE'S  LOVERS 

the  veranda.  I  glanced  up  at  the  thermometer, 
and  it  registered  a  hundred  in  the  shade!  Me- 
chanically I  pushed  the  lime-juice  toward  Mul- 
holland,  and  pointed  to  the  water-bag.  There  was 
nothing  else  to  do  except  grumble  at  the  drought. 
Yet  there  my  wife  was,  a  picture  of  coolness  and 
delight;  the  intense  heat  seemed  only  to  make 
her  the  more  refreshing  to  the  eye.  Water  was 
not  abundant,  but  we  still  felt  justified  in  trying 
to  keep  her  bushes  and  flowers  alive;  and  she 
stood  there  holding  the  hose  and  throwing  the 
water  in  the  cheerfullest  shower  upon  the  beds. 
Billy  stood  with  his  hands  on  his  hips  watching 
her,  very  hot,  very  self-contained.  He  was  shin- 
ing with  perspiration,  and  he  looked  the  better 
of  it.  Eversofar  was  camped  beneath  a  sandal- 
tree  teaching  a  cockatoo,  also  hot  and  panting, 
but  laughing  low  through  his  white  beard;  and 
Bingong,  black,  hatless — less  everything  but  a 
pair  of  trousers  which'  only  reached  to  his  knees — 
was  dividing  his  time  between  the  cockatoo  and 
my  wife. 

Presently  Bingong  sighted  an  iguana  and  caught 
it,  and  the  three  gathered  about  it  in  the  shade  of 
the  sandal.  After  a  time  the  interest  in  the 
iguana  seemed  to  have  shifted  to  something  else, 
and  they  were  all  speaking  very  earnestly.  At 
last  I  saw  Billy  and  my  wife  only  talking.  Billy 
was  excited,  and  apparently  indignant.  I  could 
not  hear  what  they  were  saying,  but  I  saw  he  was 
pale,  and  his  compatriots  in  worship  rather  fright- 


CUMNER'S  SON 

ened;  for  he  suddenly  got  into  a  lofty  rage.  It 
was  undoubtedly  a  quarrel.  Mulholland  saw  too, 
and  said  to  me:  "This  looks  as  if  there  would  be 
a  chance  for  you  yet."  He  laughed.  So  did  I. 

Soon  I  saw  by  my  wife's  face  that  she  was  say- 
ing something  sarcastical.  Then  Billy  drew  him- 
self up  very  proudly,  and  waving  his  hand  in  a 
grand  way,  said  loudly,  so  that  we  could  hear: 
"It's  as  true  as  gospel;  and  you'll  be  sorry  for 
this — like  anything  and  anything!"  Then  he 
stalked  away  from  her,  raising  his  hat  proudly, 
but  immediately  turned,  and  beckoning  to  Ever- 
sofar  and  Bingong,  added:  "Come  on  with  me 
to  barracks,  you  two." 

They  started  away  toward  him,  looking  sheep- 
ishly at  my  wife  as  they  did  so;  but  Billy  rinding 
occasion  to  give  counter-orders,  said:  "But  you 
needn't  come  until  you  put  the  cockatoos  away, 
and  stuck  the  iguana  in  a  barrel,  and  put  up  the 
hose  for — for  her." 

He  watched  them  obey  his  orders,  his  head  in 
the  air  the  while,  and  when  they  had  finished,  and 
were  come  toward  him,  he  again  took  off  his  hat, 
and  they  all  left  her  standing  alone  in  the  garden. 

Then  she  laughed  a  little  oddly  to  herself,  and 
stood  picking  to  pieces  the  wet  leaves  of  a  gera- 
nium, looking  after  the  three.  After  a  little  she 
came  slowly  over  to  us.  "Well,"  said  I,  feigning 
great  irony,  "all  loves  must  have  their  day,  both 
old  and  new.  You  see  how  they've  deserted  you. 
Yet  you  smile  at  it!" 

132 


MY  WIFE'S  LOVERS 

"Indeed,  my  lord  and  master,"  she  said,  "it  is 
not  a  thing  to  laugh  at.  It's  very  serious." 

"And  what  has  broken  the  charm  of  your  com- 
panionship?" I  asked. 

"The  mere  matter  of  the  fabled  Bunyip.  He 
claimed  that  he  had  seen  it,  and  I  doubted  his 
word.  Had  it  been  you  it  would  not  have  mat- 
tered. You  would  have  turned  the  other  cheek, 
you  are  so  tame.  But  he  has  fire  and  soul,  and 
so  we  quarrelled." 

"And  your  other  lovers  turned  tail,"  I  mali- 
ciously said. 

"Which  only  shows  how  superior  he  is,"  was 
her  reply.  "If  you  had  been  in  the  case  they 
would  never  have  left  me." 

"Oh,  oh!"  blurted  Mulholland,  "I  am  better 
out  of  this;  for  I  little  care  to  be  called  as  a  wit- 
ness in  divorce."  He  rose  from  his  chair,  but  I 
pushed  him  back,  and  he  did  not  leave  till  "the 
cool  of  the  evening." 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast-time,  a  rouse- 
about  brought  us  a  piece  of  paper  which  had  been 
nailed  to  the  sandal-tree.  On  it  was  written: 

"We  have  gone  for  the  Bunyip.  We  travel  on 
foot!  Farewell!  and  Farewell!" 

We  had  scarcely  read  it  when  John  Marshall 
and  his  wife  came  in  agitation,  and  said  that 
Billy's  bed  had  not  been  slept  in  during  the  night. 
From  the  rouseabout  we  found  that  Eversofar  and 
Bingong  were  also  gone.  They  had  not  taken 
horses,  doubtless  because  Billy  thought  it  would 


CUMNER'S   SON 

hardly  be  valiant  and  adventurous  enough,  and 
because  neither  Bingong  nor  Eversofar  owned  one, 
and  it  might  look  criminal  to  go  off  with  mine. 
We  suspected  that  they  had  headed  for  the  great 
Debil-debil  Water-Hole,  wrhere,  it  was  said,  the 
Bunyip  appeared:  that  mysterious  animal,  or 
devil,  or  thing,  which  nobody  has  ever  seen,  but 
many  have  pretended  to  see.  Now,  this  must  be 
said  of  Billy,  that  he  never  had  the  feeling  of  fear 
— he  was  never  even  afraid  of  me.  He  had  often 
said  he  had  seen  a  Bunyip,  and  that  he'd  bring 
one  home  some  day,  but  no  one  took  him  seriously. 
It  showed  what  great  influence  he  had  over  his 
companions  that  he  could  induce  them  to  go  with 
him;  for  Bingong,  being  a  native,  must  natural- 
ly have  a  constitutional  fear  of  the  Debil-debil, 
as  the  Bunyip  is  often  called.  The  Debil-debil 
Water-Hole  was  a  long  way  off,  and  through  a 
terrible  country — quartz-plains,  ragged  scrub,  and 
little  or  no  water  all  the  way.  Then,  had  they 
taken  plenty  of  food  with  them?  So  far  as  we 
could  see,  they  had  taken  some,  but  we  could 
not  tell  how  much. 

My  wife  smiled  at  the  business  at  first;  then 
became  worried  as  the  day  wore  on,  and  she  could 
see  the  danger  and  hardship  of  wandering  about 
this  forsaken  country  without  a  horse  and  with 
uncertain  water.  The  day  passed.  They  did  not 
return.  We  determined  on  a  search  the  next 
morning.  At  daybreak  Marshall  and  I  and  the 
rouseabout  started  on  good  horses,  each  going  at 


MY  WIFE'S  LOVERS 

different  angles,  but  agreeing  to  meet  at  the  Debil- 
debil  Water-Hole,  and  to  wait  there  for  each 
other.  If  any  one  of  us  did  not  come  after  a  cer- 
tain time,  we  were  to  conclude  that  he  had  found 
the  adventurers  and  was  making  his  way  back 
with  them.  After  a  day  of  painful  travel  and 
little  water,  Marshall  and  I  arrived,  almost  within 
an  hour  of  each  other.  We  could  see  no  sign  of 
anybody  having  been  at  the  lagoon.  We  waited 
twelve  hours,  and  were  about  to  go,  leaving  a 
mark  behind  us  to  show  we  had  been  there,  when 
we  saw  the  rouseabout  and  his  exhausted  horse 
coming  slowly  through  the  blue-bush  to  us.  He 
had  suffered  much  for  want  of  water. 

We  all  started  back  again  at  different  angles, 
our  final  rendezvous  being  arranged  for  the  station 
homestead,  the  rouseabout  taking  a  direct  line, 
and  making  for  the  Little  Black  Billabong  on  the 
way.  I  saw  no  sign  of  the  adventurers.  I  sick- 
ened with  the  heat,  and  my  eyes  became  inflamed. 
I  was  glad  enough  when,  at  last,  I  drew  rein  in 
the  home-paddock.  I  couldn't  see  any  distance, 
though  I  was  not  far  from  the  house.  But  when 
I  got  into  the  garden  I  saw  that  others  had  just 
arrived.  It  was  the  rouseabout  with  my  wife's 
lovers.  He  had  found  Billy  nursing  Eversofar  in 
the  shade  of  a  stunted  brigalow,  while  Bingong 
was  away  hunting  for  water.  Billy  himself  had 
pushed  his  cause  as  bravely  as  possible,  and  had 
in  fact  visited  the  Little  Black  Billabong,  where — 
he  always  maintains — he  had  seen  the  great  Bun- 


CUMNER'S   SON 

yip.  But  after  watching  one  night,  they  tried  to 
push  on  to  the  Debil-debil  Water-Hole.  Old  Ever- 
sofar,  being  weak  and  old,  gave  in,  and  Billy 
became  a  little  delirious — he  has  denied  it,  but 
Bingong  says  it  is  so;  yet  he  pulled  himself  to- 
gether as  became  the  leader  of  an  expedition,  and 
did  what  he  could  for  Eversofar  until  the  rouse- 
about  came  with  food  and  water.  Then  he  broke 
down  and  cried — he  denies  this  also.  They  tied 
the  sick  man  on  the  horse  and  trudged  back  to 
the  station  in  a  bad  plight. 

As  I  came  near  the  group  I  heard  my  wife  say 
to  Billy,  who  looked  sadly  haggard  and  ill,  that 
she  was  sure  he  would  have  got  the  Bunyip  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  the  terrible  drought;  and  at  that, 
regardless  of  my  presence,  he  took  her  by  the  arms 
and  kissed  her,  and  then  she  kissed  him  several 
times. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  have  mentioned  before  that 
Billy  was  just  nine  years  old. 


THE   STRANGERS'    HUT 

I  HAD  come  a  long  journey  across  country  with 
Glenn,  the  squatter,  and  now  we  were  entering 
the  homestead  paddock  of  his  sheep-station,  Win- 
nanbar.  Afar  to  the  left  was  a  stone  building, 
solitary  in  a  waste  of  salt-bush  and  dead-finish 
scrub.  I  asked  Glenn  what  it  was. 

He  answered,  smilingly,  "The  Strangers'  Hut. 
Sundowners  and  that  lot  sleep  there;  there's  al- 
ways some  flour  and  tea  in  a  hammock,  under  the 
roof,  and  there  they  are  with  a  pub  of  their  own. 
It's  a  fashion  we  have  in  Australia." 

"It  seems  all  right,  Glenn,"  I  said,  with  ad- 
miration. "It's  surer  than  Elijah's  ravens." 

' '  It  saves  us  from  their  prowling  about  the  bar- 
racks," and  camping  on  the  front  veranda." 

"How  many  do  you  have  of  a  week?" 

"That  depends.  Sundowners  are  as  uncer- 
tain, as  they  are  unknown,  quantities.  After 
shearing-time  they're  thickest;  in  the  dead  of 
summer  fewest.  This  is  the  dead  of  summer," 
and,  for  the  hundredth  time  in  our  travel,  Glenn 
shook  his  head  sadly. 

Sadness  was  ill-suited  to  his  burly  form  and 


CUMNER'S   SON 

bronzed  face;  but  it  was  there.  He  had  some 
trouble,  I  thought,  deeper  than  drought.  It  was 
too  introspective  to  have  its  origin  solely  in  the 
fact  that  sheep  were  dying  by  thousands,  that 
the  stock-routes  were  as  dry  of  water  as  the  hard 
sky  above  us,  and  that  it  was  a  toss-up  whether 
many  families  in  the  West  should  not  presently 
abandon  their  stations,  driven  out  by  a  water- 
famine — and  worse. 

After  a  short  silence  Glenn  stood  up  in  the  trap, 
and,  following  the  circle  of  the  horizon  with  his 
hand,  said:  "There's  not  an  honest  blade  of  grass 
in  all  this  wretched  West.  This  whole  business 
is  gambling  with  God." 

"It  is  hard  on  women  and  children  that  they 
must  live  here,"  I  remarked,  with  my  eyes  on  the 
Strangers'  Hut. 

"It's  harder  for  men  without  them,"  he  mourn- 
fully replied;  and  at  that  moment  I  began  to 
doubt  whether  Glenn,  whom  I  had  heard  to  be 
a  bachelor,  was  not  tired  of  that  calm  but  chilly 
state.  He  followed  up  this  speech  immediately 
by  this:  "Look  at  that  drinking- tank!" 

'  The  thing  was  not  pleasant  in  the  eye.  Sheep 
were  dying  and  dead  by  thousands  round  it,  and 
the  crows  were  feasting  horribly.  We  became 
silent  again. 

The  Strangers'  Hut,  and  its  unique  and,  to  me, 
awesome  hospitality,  was  still  in  my  mind.  It 
remained  with  me  until,  impelled  by  curiosity,  I 
wandered  away  toward  it  in  the  glow  and  silence 

138 


THE  STRANGERS'  HUT 

of  the  evening.  The  walk  was  no  brief  matter, 
but  at  length  I  stood  near  the  lonely  public,  where 
no  name  of  guest  is  ever  asked  and  no  bill  ever 
paid.  And  then  I  fell  to  musing  on  how  many 
life-histories  these  gray  walls  had  sheltered  for  a 
fitful  hour,  how  many  stumbling  wayfarers  had 
eaten  and  drunken  in  this  Hotel  of  Refuge.  I 
dropped  my  glances  on  the  ground ;  a  bird,  newly 
dead,  lay  at  my  feet,  killed  by  the  heat. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  a  child's  crying.  I 
started  forward,  then  faltered.  Why,  I  could  not 
tell,  save  that  the  crying  seemed  so  a  part  of  the 
landscape  that  it  might  have  come  out  of  the 
sickly  sunset,  out  of  the  yellow  sky,  out  of  the 
aching  earth  about  me.  To  follow  it  might  be 
like  pursuing  dreams.  The  crying  ceased. 

Thus  for  a  moment,  and  then  I  walked  round 
to  the  door  of  the  hut.  At  the  sound  of  slight 
moaning  I  paused  again.  Then  I  crossed  the 
threshold  resolutely. 

A  woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms  sat  on  a  rude 
couch.  Her  lips  were  clinging  to  the  infant's  fore- 
head. At  the  sound  of  my  footsteps  she  raised 
her  head. 

"Ah!"  she  said,  and,  trembling,  rose  to  her 
feet.  She  was  fair-haired  and  strong,  if  sad,  of 
face.  Perhaps  she  never  had  been  beautiful,  but 
in  health  her  face  must  have  been  persistent  in 
its  charm.  Even  now  it  was  something  noble. 

With  that  patronage  of  compassion  which  we 
use  toward  those  who  are  unfortunate  and  hum- 


CUMNER'S   SON 

ble,  I  was  about  to  say  to  her,  "My  poor  woman! " 
but  there  was  something  in  her  manner  so  above 
her  rude  surroundings  that  I  was  impelled  to  this 
instead :  ' '  Madam,  you  are  ill.  Can  I  be  of  service 
to  you?" 

Then  I  doffed  my  hat.  I  had  not  done  so  before, 
and  I  blushed  now  as  I  did  it,  for  I  saw  that  she 
had  compelled  me.  She  sank  back  upon  the 
couch  again  as  though  the  effort  to  achieve  my 
courtesy  had  unnerved  her,  and  she  murmured 
simply  and  painfully:  "Thank  you  very  much: 
I  have  travelled  far." 
"May  I  ask  how  far?" 

"From  Mount  o'  Eden,  two  hundred  miles  and 
more,  I  think;"  and  her  eyes  sought  the  child's 
face,  while  her  cheek  grew  paler.  She  had  lighted 
a  tiny  fire  on  the  hearthstone  and  had  put  the 
kettle  on  the  wood.  Her  eyes  were  upon  it  now 
with  the  covetousness  of  thirst  and  hunger.  I 
kneeled,  and  put  in  the  tin  of  water  left  behind  by 
some  other  pilgrim,  a  handful  of  tea  from  the 
same  source — the  outcast  and  suffering  giving  to 
their  kind.  I  poured  out  for  her  soon  a  lit- 
tle of  the  tea.  Then  I  asked  for  her  burden. 
She  gave  it  to  my  arms  —  a  wan,  wise -faced 
child. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  "I  am  only  a  visitor  here, 
but,  if  you  feel  able,  and  will  come  with  me  to 
the  homestead,  you  shall,  I  know,  find  welcome 
and  kindness,  or,  if  you  will  wait,  there  are  horses, 
and  you  shall  be  brought — yes,  indeed,"  I  added, 

140 


THE  STRANGERS'  HUT 

as  she  shook  her  head  in  sad  negation,  "you  will 
be  welcome." 

I  was  sure  that,  whatever  ill  chances  had 
befallen  the  mother  of  this  child,  she  was  one  of 
those  who  are  found  in  the  sight  of  the  Perfect 
Justice  sworn  for  by  the  angels.  I  knew  also  that 
Glenn  would  see  that  she  should  be  cordially 
sheltered  and  brought  back  to  health;  for  men 
like  Glenn,  I  said  to  myself,  are  kinder  in  their 
thought  of  suffering  women  than  women  them- 
selves— are  kinder,  juster,  and  less  prone  to  think 
evil. 

She  raised  her  head,  and  answered:  "I  think 
that  I  could  walk;  but  this,  you  see,  is  the  only 
hospitality  that  I  can  accept,  save,  it  may  be, 
some  bread  and  a  little  meat,  that  the  child  suffer 
no  more,  until  I  reach  Winnanbar,  which,  I  fear, 
is  still  far  away." 

"This,"  I  replied,  "is  Winnanbar;  the  home- 
stead is  over  there,  beyond  the  hill." 

"This  is — Winnanbar?"  she  whisperingly  said, 
"this — is — Winnanbar!  I  did  not  think — I  was 
— so  near."  ...  A  thankful  look  came  to  her 
face.  She  rose,  and  took  the  child  again  and 
pressed  it  to  her  breast,  and  her  eyes  brooded 
upon  it.  "Now  she  is  beautiful,"  I  thought,  and 
waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"Sir — "  she  said  at  last,  and  paused.  In  the 
silence  a  footstep  sounded  without,  and  then  a 
form  appeared  in  the  doorway.  It  was  Glenn. 

"I  followed  you,"  he  said  to  me;    "and — !" 
141 


CUMNER'S   SON 

He  saw  the  woman,  and  a  low  cry  broke  from 
her. 

"Agnes!  Agnes!"  he  cried,  with  something  of 
sternness  and  a  little  shame. 

"I  have  come — to  you — again — Robert,"  she 
brokenly,  but  not  abjectly,  said. 

He  came  close  to  her  and  looked  into  her  face, 
then  into  the  face  of  the  child,  with  a  sharp 
questioning.  She  did  not  flinch,  but  answered 
his  scrutiny  clearly  and  proudly.  Then,  after  a 
moment,  she  turned  a  disappointed  look  upon  me, 
as  though  to  say  that  I,  a  stranger,  had  read  her 
aright  at  once,  while  this  man  held  her  afar  in 
the  cold  courts  of  his  judgment  ere  he  gave  her 
any  welcome  or  said  a  word  of  pity. 

She  sank  back  on  the  bench,  and  drew  a  hand 
with  sorrowful  slowness  across  her  brow.  He  saw 
a  ring  upon  her  finger.  He  took  her  hand  and 
said:  "You  are  married,  Agnes?" 

"My  husband  is  dead,  and  the  sister  of  this  poor 
one  also,"  she  replied;  and  she  fondled  the  child 
and  raised  her  eyes  to  her  brother's. 

His  face  now  showed  compassion.     He  stooped 

and  kissed  her  cheek.     And  it  seemed  to  me  at 

that  moment  that  she  could  not  be  gladder  than  I. 

"Agnes,"  he  said,  "can  you  forgive  me?" 

"He  was  only  a  stock-rider,"  she  murmured,  as 

if  to  herself,  "but  he  was  well-born.     I  loved  him. 

You  were  angry.     I  went  away  with  him  in  the 

night  ...  far   away   to   the   north.     God   was 

good — "     Here   she    brushed   her   lips   tenderly 

142 


THE  STRANGERS'  HUT 

across  the  curls  of  the  child.  "Then  the  drought 
came  and  sickness  fell  and  .  .  .  death  .  .  .  and  I 
was  alone  with  my  baby — " 

His  lips  trembled  and  his  hand  was  hurting  my 
arm,  though  he  knew  it  not. 

"Where  could  I  go?"  she  continued. 

Glenn  answered  pleadingly  now:  "To  your 
unworthy  brother,  God  bless  you  and  forgive  me, 
dear! — though  even  here  at  Winnanbar  there  is 
drought  and  famine,  and  the  cattle  die." 

"But  my  little  one  shall  live!"  she  cried 
joyfully. 

That  night  Glenn  of  Winnanbar  was  a  happy 
man,  for  rain  fell  on  the  land,  and  he  held  his 
sister's  child  in  his  arms. 

10 


THE   PLANTER'S   WIFE 


SHE  was  the  daughter  of  a  ruined  squatter, 
whose  family  had  been  pursued  with  bad  luck; 
he  was  a  planter,  named  Houghton.  She  was 
not  an  uncommon  woman;  he  was  not  an  un- 
usual man.  They  were  not  happy,  they  might 
never  be;  he  was  almost  sure  they  would  not  be; 
she  had  long  ceased  to  think  they  could  be.  She 
had  told  him  when  she  married  him  that  she  did 
not  love  him.  He  had  been  willing  to  wait  for 
her  love,  believing  that  by  patience  and  devotion 
he  could  win  it.  They  were  both  sorry  for  each 
other  now.  They  accepted  things  as  they  were, 
but  they  knew  there  was  danger  in  the  situation. 
She  loved  some  one  else,  and  he  knew  it,  but  he 
had  never  spoken  to  her  of  it — he  was  of  too  good 
stuff  for  that.  He  was  big  and  burly,  and  some- 
thing awkward  in  his  ways.  She  was  pretty, 
clear-minded,  kind,  and  very  grave.  There  were 
days  when  they  were  both  bitter  at  heart.  On 
one  such  day  they  sat  at  luncheon,  eating  little, 
and  looking  much  out  of  the  door  across  the  rice- 
fields  and  banana  plantations  to  the  Hebron 
Mountains.  The  wife's  eyes  fixed  on  the  hills 

144 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

and  stayed.  A  road  ran  down  the  hill  toward  a 
platform  of  rock  which  swept  smooth  and  straight 
to  the  sheer  side  of  the  mountain  called  White 
Bluff.  At  first  glance  it  seemed  that  the  road 
ended  at  the  cliff — a  mighty  slide  to  destruction. 
Instead,  however,  of  coming  straight  to  the  cliff, 
it  veered  suddenly  and  ran  round  the  mountain- 
side, coming  down  at  a  steep  but  fairly  safe  in- 
cline. The  platform  or  cliff  was  fenced  off  by  a 
low  barricade  of  fallen  trees,  scarcely  noticeable 
from  the  valley  below. 

The  wife's  eyes  had  often  wandered  to  the  spot 
with  a  strange  fascination,  as  now.  Her  husband 
looked  at  her  meditatively.  He  nodded  slight- 
ly, as  though  to  himself.  She  looked  up.  Their 
understanding  of  each  other's  thoughts  was  sin- 
gular. 

"Tom,"  she  said,  "I  will  ride  the  chestnut, 
Bowline,  to  that  fence  some  day.  It  will  be  a 
big  steeplechase." 

He  winced,  but  answered,  slowly:  "You  have 
meant  to  say  that  for  a  long  time  past.  I  am 
glad  it  has  been  said  at  last." 

She  was  struck  by  the  perfect  quietness  of  his 
tone.  Her  eyes  sought  his  face  and  rested  for  a 
moment,  half  bewildered,  half  pitying. 

"Yes,  it  has  been  in  my  mind  often — often," 
she  said. 

"It's  a  horrible  thought,"  he  gravely  replied; 
"but  it  is  better  to  be  frank.  Still,  you'll  never 
do  it,  Alice — you'll  never  dare  to  do  it." 

145 


CUMNER'S    SON 

"Dare,  dare,"  she  answered,  springing  to  her 
feet,  and  a  shuddering  sigh  broke  from  her.  "The 
thing  itself  is  easy  enough,  Tom." 

"And  why  haven't  you  done  it?"  he  asked,  in 
a  hard  voice,  but  still  calmly. 

She  leaned  one  hand  upon  the  table,  the  other 
lay  at  her  cheek,  and  her  head  bent  forward  at 
him.  ' '  Because, ' '  she  answered — ' '  because  I  have 
tried  to  be  thoughtful  for  you." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  he  said— "as  to  that!"  and 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly. 

"You  don't  care  a  straw!"  she  said,  sharply; 
"you  never  did." 

He  looked  up  suddenly  at  her,  a  great  bit- 
terness in  his  face,  and  laughed  strangely  as 
he  answered:  "Care!  Good  God!  Care!  .  .  . 
What's  the  use  of  caring  ?  It's  been  all  a  mistake; 
all  wrong." 

"That  is  no  news,"  she  said,  wearily.  "You 
discovered  that  long  ago." 

He  looked  out  of  the  door  across  the  warm 
fields  again;  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  that  mountain 
road;  he  looked  down  at  her.  "I  haven't  any 
hope  left  now,  Alice.  Let's  be  plain  with  each 
other.  We've  always  been  plain,  but  let  us  be 
plainer  still.  There  are  those  rice -fields  out 
there,  that  banana  plantation,  and  the  sugar-cane 
stretching  back  as  far  as  the  valley  goes — it's  all 
mine,  all  mine.  I  worked  hard  for  it.  I  had 
only  one  wish  with  it  all,  one  hope  through  it 
all,  and  it  was  that,  when  I  brought  you  here  as 

146 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

my  wife,  you  would  come  to  love  me — some  time. 
Well,  I've  waited  and  waited.  It  hasn't  come. 
We're  as  far  apart  to-day  as  we  were  the  day  I 
married  you.  Farther,  for  I  had  hope  then,  but 
I've  no  hope  now,  none  at  all." 

They  both  turned  toward  the  intemperate  sun- 
light and  the  great  hill.  The  hollowness  of  life 
as  they  lived  it  came  home  to  them  with  an  aching 
force.  Yet  she  lifted  her  fan  from  the  table  and 
fanned  herself  gently  with  it,  and  he  mechanical- 
ly lit  a  cigar.  Servants  passed  in  and  out,  re- 
moving the  things  from  the  table.  Presently 
they  were  left  alone.  The  heavy  breath  of  the 
palm-trees  floated  in  upon  them;  the  fruit  of 
the  passion-flower  hung  temptingly  at  the  win- 
dow; they  could  hear  the  sound  of  a  torrent  just 
behind  the  house.  The  day  was  droning  luxuri- 
ously, yet  the  eyes  of  both,  as  by  some  weird  in- 
fluence, were  fastened  upon  the  hill ;  and  present- 
ly they  saw,  at  the  highest  point  where  the  road 
was  visible,  a  horseman.  He  came  slowly  down 
until  he  reached  the  spot  where  the  road  was 
barricaded  from  the  platform  of  the  cliff.  Here 
he  paused.  He  sat  long,  looking,  as  it  appeared, 
down  into  the  valley.  The  husband  rose  and 
took  down  a  field-glass  from  a  shelf;  he  levelled 
it  at  the  figure. 

"Strange,  strange,"  he  said  to  himself  —  "he 
seems  familiar,  and  yet — " 

She  rose  and  reached  out  her  hand  for  the  glass. 
He  gave  it  to  her.     She  raised  it  to  her  eyes,  but, 


CUMNER'S  SON 

at  that  moment,  the  horseman  swerved  into  the 
road  again  and  was  lost  to  view.  Suddenly 
Houghton  started;  an  enigmatical  smile  passed 
across  his  face. 

"Alice,"  said  he,  "did  you  mean  what  you  said 
about  the  steeplechase — I  mean  about  the  ride 
down  the  White  Bluff  road?" 

"I  meant  all  I  said,"  was  her  bitter  reply. 

"You  think  life  is  a  mistake?"  he  rejoined. 

"I  think  we  have  made  a  mistake,"  was  her 
answer,  "a  deadly  mistake,  and  it  lasts  all  our 
lives." 

He  walked  to  the  door,  trained  the  glass  again 
on  the  hill,  then  afterward  turned  round  and  said: 

"If  ever  you  think  of  riding  the  White  Bluff 
road — straight  for  the  cliff  itself  and  over — tell 
me,  and  I'll  ride  it  with  you.  If  it's  all  wrong  as 
it  is,  it's  all  wrong  for  both,  and,  maybe,  the  worst 
of  what  comes  after  is  better  than  the  worst  of 
what  is  here." 

They  had  been  frank  with  each  other  in  the 
past,  but  never  so  frank  as  this.  He  was  deter- 
mined that  they  should  be  still  more  frank,  and 
so  was  she.  "Alice — "  he  said. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  she  interjected.  "I  have 
something  to  say,  Tom.  I  never  told  you — 
indeed,  I  thought  I  never  should  tell  you;  but 
now  I  think  it's  best  to  do  so.  I  loved  a  man 
once — with  all  my  soul." 

"You  love  him  still,"  was  the  reply;  and  he 
screwed  and  unscrewed  the  field-glass  in  his  hand, 

148 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

looking  bluntly  at  her  the  while.  She  nodded, 
returning  his  gaze  most  earnestly  and  choking 
back  a  sob. 

' '  Well,  it's  a  pity,  it's  a  pity , ' '  he  replied.  ' '  We 
oughtn't  to  live  together  as  it  is.  It's  all  wrong; 
it's  wicked — I  can  see  that  now." 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me?"  she  answered 
in  surprise. 

"You  can't  help  it,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
drearily. 

"Do  you  really  mean,"  she  breathlessly  said, 
"that  we  might  as  well  die  together,  since  we 
can't  live  together  and  be  happy?" 

"There's  nothing  in  life  that  gives  me  a  pleasant 
taste  in  the  mouth,  so  what's  the  good?  Mind 
you,  my  girl,  I  think  it  a  terrible  pity  that  you 
should  have  the  thought  to  die ;  and  if  you  could 
be  happy  living,  I'd  die  myself  to  save  you.  But 
can  you  ?  That's  the  question — can  you  be  happy, 
even  if  I  went  and  you  stayed?" 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  said,  thoughtfully  and 
without  excitement.  "No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"The  man's  name  was  Cayley — Cay  ley!"  he 
said  to  her,  bluntly. 

"How  did  you  know?"  she  asked,  astonished. 
"You  never  saw  him." 

"Oh  yes,  I've  seen  him,"  was  the  reply — "seen 
him  often.  I  knew  him  once." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  she  rejoined. 

"I  knew  it  all  along,"  he  continued,  "and  I've 
waited  for  you  to  tell  me." 

149 


CUMNER'S  SON 

''How  did  you  know?" 

"Cayley  told  me." 

"When  did  he  tell  you?" 

"The  morning  that  I  married  you."  His  voice 
was  thick  with  misery. 

She  became  white  and  dazed.  "Before — or 
after  ? "  she  asked.  He  paused  a  moment,  looking 
steadily  at  her,  and  answered,  "Before." 

She  drew  back  as  though  she  had  been  struck. 
"Good  God!"  she  cried.     "Why  did  he  not— 
she  paused. 

"Why  did  he  not  marry  you  himself?"  he  re- 
joined. "You  must  ask  him  that  yourself,  if 
you  do  not  know." 

"And  yet  you  married  me,  knowing  all — that 
he  loved  me!"  she  gasped. 

"I  would  have  married  you  then,  knowing  a 
thousand  times  that." 

She  cowered,  but  presently  advanced  to  him. 
"You  have  sinned  as  much  as  I,"  she  said.  "Do 
you  dare  pay  the  penalty?" 

"Do  I  dare  ride  with  you  to  the  cliff — and 
beyond?" 

Her  lips  framed  a  reply,  but  no  sound  came. 

"But  we  will  wait  till  to-morrow,"  he  said, 
absently. 

"Why  not  to-day?"  she  painfully  asked. 

"We  will  wait  till  to-morrow,"  he  urged,  and  his 
eyes  followed  the  trail  of  a  horseman  on  the  hill. 

"Why  not  while  we  have  courage?"  she  per- 
sisted, as  though  the  suspense  hurt  her. 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

"But  we  will  wait  till  to-morrow,  Alice,"  he 
again  repeated. 

"Very  well,"  she  answered,  with  the  indiffer- 
ence of  despair. 

He  stood  in  the  doorway  and  watched  a  horse- 
man descending  into  the  valley. 

"Strange  things  may  chance  before  to-morrow," 
he  said  to  himself,  and  he  mechanically  lighted 
another  cigar.  She  idled  with  her  fan. 


II 

He  did  not  leave  the  house  that  afternoon.  He 
kept  his  post  on  the  veranda  watching  the  valley. 
With  an  iron  kind  of  calmness  he  was  facing  a 
strange  event.  It  was  full  of  the  element  of 
chance,  and  he  had  been  taking  chances  all  his 
life.  With  the  chances  of  fortune  he  had  won; 
with  the  chances  of  love  and  happiness  he  had 
lost.  He  knew  that  the  horseman  on  the  moun- 
tain-side was  Cayley ;  he  knew  that  Cayley  would 
not  be  near  his  home  without  a  purpose.  Besides, 
Cayley  had  said  he  would  come — he  had  said  it  in 
half-banter,  half- threat.  Houghton  had  had  too 
many  experiences  backward  and  forward  in  the 
world  to  be  afflicted  with  littleness  of  mind.  He 
had  never  looked  to  get  an  immense  amount  of 
happiness  out  of  life,  but  he  thought  that  love 
and  marriage  would  give  him  a  possible  approach 
to  content.  He  had  chanced  it,  and  he  had  lost. 


CUMNER'S  SON 

At  first  he  had  taken  it  with  a  dreadful  bitterness ; 
now  he  regarded  it  with  a  quiet,  unimpassioned 
despair.  He  regarded  his  wife,  himself,  and 
Cay  ley  as  an  impartial  judge  would  view  the  ex- 
traordinary claims  of  three  desperate  litigants. 
He  thought  it  all  over  as  he  sat  there  smoking. 
When  the  servants  came  to  him  to  ask  him 
questions  or  his  men  ventured  upon  matters  of 
business,  he  answered  them  directly,  decisively, 
and  went  on  thinking.  His  wife  had  come  to 
take  coffee  with  him  at  the  usual  hour  of  the 
afternoon.  There  was  no  special  strain  of  manner 
or  of  speech.  The  voices  were  a  little  lower,  the 
tones  a  little  more  decided,  their  eyes  did  not 
meet;  that  was  all.  When  coffee-drinking  was 
over  the  wife  retired  to  her  room.  Still  Houghton 
smoked  on.  At  length  he  saw  the  horseman 
entering  into  the  grove  of  palms  before  the  door. 
He  rose  deliberately  from  his  seat  and  walked 
down  the  pathway. 

"Good-day  to  you,  Houghton,"  the  horseman 
said;  "we  meet  again,  you  see." 

"I  see." 

"You  are  not  overjoyed." 

"There's  no  reason  why  I  should  be  glad. 
Why  have  you  come?" 

"You  remember  our  last  meeting  five  years  ago  ? 
You  were  on  your  way  to  be  married.  Marriage 
is  a  beautiful  thing,  Houghton,  when  everything 
is  right  and  square,  and  there's  love  both  sides. 
Well,  everything  was  right  and  square  with  you 

152 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

and  the  woman  you  were  going  to  marry;  but 
there  was  not  love  both  sides." 

While  they  had  been  talking  thus,  Houghton 
had,  of  purpose,  led  his  companion  far  into  the 
shade  of  the  palms.  He  now  wheeled  upon 
Cayley,  and  said,  sternly,  "I  warn  you  to 
speak  with  less  insolence;  we  had  better  talk 
simply." 

Cayley  was  perfectly  cool.  "We  will  talk  sim- 
ply. As  I  said,  you  had  marriage  without  love. 
The  woman  loved  another  man.  That  other  man 
loved  the  woman — that  good  woman.  In  youth- 
ful days  at  college  he  had  married,  neither  wisely 
nor  well,  a  beggar-maid  without  those  virtues 
usually  credited  to  beggar-maidens  who  marry 
gentlemen.  Well,  Houghton,  the  beggar -maid 
was  supposed  to  have  died.  She  hadn't  died; 
she  had  shammed.  Meanwhile,  between  her 
death  and  her  resurrection,  the  man  came  to  love 
that  good  woman.  And  so  lines  got  crossed; 
things  went  wrong.  Houghton,  I  loved  Alice  be- 
fore she  was  your  wife.  I  should  have  married 
her  but  for  the  beggar-maid." 

"You  left  her  without  telling  her  why." 

"I  told  her  that  things  must  end,  and  I  went 
away." 

"Like  a  coward,"  rejoined  Houghton.  "You 
should  have  told  her  all." 

"What  difference  has  it  made?"  asked  Cayley, 
gloomily. 

"My  happiness  and  hers.     If  you  had  told  her 


CUMNER'S  SON 

all,  there  had  been  an  end  of  mystery.  Mystery 
is  dear  to  a  woman's  heart.  She  was  not  different 
in  that  respect  from  others.  You  took  the  surest 
way  to  be  remembered." 

Cayley's  fingers  played  with  his  horse's  mane; 
his  eyes  ran  over  the  ground  debatingly;  then  he 
lifted  them  suddenly  and  said,  "Houghton,  you 
are  remarkably  frank  with  me;  what  do  you 
mean  by  it?" 

"I'll  tell  you  if  you  will  answer  me  this  ques- 
tion: Why  have  you  come  here?" 

The  eyes  of  both  men  crossed  like  swords, 
played  with  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then 
fixed  to  absolute  determination.  Cayley  an- 
swered, doggedly:  "I  came  to  see  your  wife,  be- 
cause I'm  not  likely  ever  to  see  her  or  you  again. 
I  wanted  one  look  of  her  before  I  went  away. 
There,  I'm  open  with  you." 

"It  is  well  to  be  open  with  me,"  Houghton  re- 
plied. He  drew  Cayley  aside  to  an  opening  in 
the  trees  where  the  mountain  and  the  White 
Bluff  road  could  be  seen,  and  pointed.  "That 
would  make  a  wonderful  leap,"  he  said,  "from 
the  top  of  the  hill  down  to  the  cliff  edge — and 
over!" 

"A  dreadful  steeplechase,"  said  Cayley. 

Houghton  lowered  his  voice.  "  Two  people 
have  agreed  to  take  that  fence." 

Cayley  frowned.     "What  two  people?" 

"My  wife  and  I." 

"Why?" 

i54 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

"Because  there  has  been  a  mistake,  and  to  live 
is  misery." 

"Has  it  come  to  that?"  Cayley  asked,  huskily. 
"Is  there  no  way — no  better  way?  Are  you  sure 
that  Death  mends  things?"  Presently  he  put  his 
hand  upon  Houghton's  arm,  as  if  with  a  sudden, 
keen  resolve.  "Houghton,"  he  said,  "you  are  a 
man — I  have  become  a  villain.  A  woman  sent 
me  once  on  the  high-road  to  the  devil;  then  an 
angel  came  in  and  made  a  man  of  me  again;  but 
I  lost  the  angel,  and  another  man  found  her,  and 
I  took  the  highway  with  the  devil  again.  I  was 
born  a  gentleman  —  that  you  know.  Now  I 
am  ..."  He  hesitated.  A  sardonic  smile  crept 
across  his  face. 

"Yes,  you  are — ?"  interposed  Houghton. 

"I  am — a  man  who  will  give  you  your  wife's 
love." 

"I  do  not  understand,"  Houghton  responded. 

Cayley  drew  Houghton  back  from  where  they 
stood  and  away  from  the  horse. 

"Look  at  that  horse,"  he  said.  "Did  you  ever 
see  a  better?" 

"Never,"  answered  Houghton,  running  him 
over  with  his  eye — "never." 

"You  notice  the  two  white  feet  and  the  star 
on  the  forehead.  Now,  listen!  Firefoot,  here!" 

"My  God!"  said  Houghton,  turning  upon  him 
with  staring  eyes;  "you  are — " 

"Whose  horse  is  that?"  interjected  Cayley. 

Firefoot  laid  his  head  upon  Cayley's  shoulder. 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Houghton  looked  at  them  both  for  a  moment. 
"It  is  the  horse  of  Hyland  the  bushranger,"  he 
said.  "All  Queensland  knows  Firefoot."  Then 
he  dazedly  added,  "Are  you  Hyland?': 

"A  price  is  set  on  my  head,"  the  bushranger 
answered,  with  a  grim  smile. 

Houghton  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  breathing 
hard.  Then  he  rejoined,  "You  are  bold  to  come 
here  openly." 

"If  I  couldn't  come  here  openly  I  would  not 
come  at  all,"  answered  the  other.  "After  what 
I  have  told  you,"  he  added,  "will  you  take  me 
in  and  let  me  speak  with  your  wife?" 

Houghton's  face  turned  black,  and  he  was 
about  to  answer  angrily,  but  Cayley  said:  "On 
my  honor — I  will  play  a  fair  game." 

For  an  instant  their  eyes  were  fixed  on  each 
other;  then,  with  a  gesture  for  Cayley  to  follow, 
Houghton  went  toward  the  house. 


Ill 


Five  minutes  later  Houghton  said  to  his  wife, 
"Alice,  a  stranger  has  come." 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  breathlessly,  for  she 
read  importance  in  his  tone. 

"It  is  the  horseman  we  saw  on  the  hill-side." 
His  eyes  passed  over  her  face  pityingly.  "I  will 
go  and  bring  him." 

156 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

She  caught  his  arm.  "Who  is  it?  Is  it  any 
one  I  know?" 

"It  is  some  one  you  know,"  he  answered,  and 
left  the  room.  Bewildered,  anticipating  yet 
dreading  to  recognize  her  thoughts,  she  sat  down 
and  waited  in  a  painful  stillness. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  Cayley  entered. 
She  started  to  her  feet  with  a  stifled,  bitter  cry, 
"Oh,  Harry!" 

He  hurried  to  her  with  arms  outstretched,  for 
she  swayed;  but  she  straightway  recovered  her- 
self, and,  leaning  against  a  chair,  steadied  to  his 
look. 

"Why  have  you  come  here?"  she  whispered. 

"To  say  good-bye  for  always,"  was  his  reply. 

"And  why — for  always?"  She  was  very  white 
and  quiet. 

"Because  we  are  not  likely  ever  to  meet  again." 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  anxiously  asked. 

"God  knows!" 

Strange  sensations  were  working  in  her.  What 
would  be  the  end  of  this  ?  Her  husband,  knowing 
all,  had  permitted  this  man  to  come  to  her  alone. 
She  had  loved  him  for  years;  though  he  had  de- 
serted her  years  ago,  she  loved  him  still — did  she 
love  him  still? 

"Will  you  not  sit  down?"  she  said,  with  me- 
chanical courtesy. 

A  stranger  would  not  have  thought  from  their 
manner  that  there  were  lives  at  stake.  They 
both  sat,  he  playing  with  the  leaves  of  an  orchid, 


CUMNER'S  SON 

she  opening  and  shutting  her  fan  absently.  But 
she  was  so  cold  she  could  hardly  speak.  Her 
heart  seemed  to  stand  still. 

"How  has  the  world  used  you  since  we  met 
last?"  she  tried  to  say  neutrally. 

"Better,  I  fear,  than  I  have  used  it,"  he  an- 
swered, quietly. 

"I  do  not  quite  see.  How  could  you  ill-use  the 
world?"  There  was  faint  irony  in  her  voice  now. 
A  change  seemed  to  have  come  upon  her. 

"By  ill-using  any  one  person  we  ill-use  society 
— the  world, "  he  meaningly  replied. 

"Whom  have  you  ill-used?"  She  did  not  look 
at  him. 

"Many — you  chiefly." 

"How  have  you — most — ill-used  me?" 

"By  letting  you  think  well  of  me.  You  have 
done  so,  have  you  not?" 

She  did  not  speak,  but  lowered  her  head  and 
caught  her  breath  slightly.  There  was  a  silence. 
Then  she  said:  "There  was  no  reason  why  I 
should —  But  you  must  not  say  these  things  to 
me.  My  husband — " 

"Your  husband  knows  all." 

"But  that  does  not  alter  it,"  she  urged,  firmly. 
"Though  he  may  be  willing  you  should  speak  of 
these  things,  I  am  not." 

"Your  husband  is  a  good  fellow,"  he  rejoined. 
"I  am  not." 

"You  are  not?"  she  asked,  wearily. 

"No.  What  do  you  think  was  the  reason  that, 
158 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

years  ago,  I  said  we  could  never  be  married,  and 
that  we  must  forget  each  other?" 

"I  cannot  tell.  I  supposed  it  was  some  duty 
of  which  I  could  not  know.  There  are  secret  and 
sacred  duties  which  we  sometimes  do  not  tell, 
even  to  our  nearest  and  dearest,  .  .  .  but  I  said  we 
should  not  speak  of  these  things,  and  we  must 
not."  She  rose  to  her  feet.  "My  husband  is 
somewhere  near.  I  will  call  him.  There  are  so 
many  things  that  men  can  talk  of — pleasant  and 
agreeable  things — " 

He  had  risen  with  her,  and,  as  her  hand  was 
stretched  out  to  ring,  stayed  it.  "No,  never 
mind  your  husband  just  now.  I  think  he  knows 
what  I  am  going  to  say  to  you." 

"But,  oh,  you  must  not — must  not!"  she  urged. 

"Pardon  me,  but  I  must,"  was  his  reply.  "As 
I  said,  you  thought  I  was  a  good  fellow.  Well,  I 
am  not;  not  at  all.  I  will  tell  you  why  I  left 
you.  I  was — already  married." 

He  let  the  bare,  unrelieved  fact  face  her,  and 
shock  her. 

"You  were  —  already  married  —  when  —  you 
loved  me,"  she  said,  her  face  showing  misery  and 
shame. 

He  smiled  a  little  bitterly  when  he  saw  the 
effect  of  his  words,  but  said,  clearly:  "Yes.  You 
see  I  was  a  villain." 

She  shuddered  a  little,  and  then  said,  simply: 
"Your  face  was  not  the  face  of  a  bad  man.  Are 
you  telling  me  the  truth?" 


CUMNER'S  SON 

He  nodded. 

"Then  you  were  wicked  with  me,"  she  said  at 
last,  with  a  great  sigh,  looking  him  straight  in  the 
eyes.  "But  you — you  loved  me?"  she  said,  with 
injured  pride  and  a  piteous  appeal  in  her  voice. 
"Ah,  I  know  you  loved  me!" 

"I  will  tell  you  when  you  know  all,"  he  an- 
swered, evenly. 

"Is  there  more  to  tell?"  she  asked,  heavily,  and 
shrinking  from  him  now. 

"Much  more.  Please  come  here."  He  went 
toward  the  open  window  of  the  room,  and  she 
followed.  He  pointed  out  to  where  his  horse 
stood  in  the  palms.  "That  is  my  horse,"  he  said. 
He  whistled  to  the  horse,  which  pricked  up  its 
ears  and  trotted  over  to  the  window.  "The  name 
of  my  horse,"  he  said,  "may  be  familiar  to  you. 
He  is  called  Firefoot." 

"Firefoot!"  she  answered,  dazedly — "that  is  the 
name  of  Hyland's  horse — Hyland  the  bushranger." 

"This  is  Hyland's  horse,"  he  said,  and  he  patted 
the  animal's  neck  gently  as  it  thrust  its  head 
within  the  window. 

"But  you  said  it  was  your  horse,"  she  rejoined, 
slowly,  as  though  the  thing  perplexed  her  sorely. 

"It  is  Hyland's  horse;  it  is  my  horse,"  he 
urged,  without  looking  at  her.  His  courage  well- 
nigh  failed  him.  Villain  as  he  was,  he  loved  her, 
and  he  saw  the  foundations  of  her  love  for  him 
crumbling  away  before  him.  In  all  his  criminal 
adventures  he  had  cherished  this  one  thing. 

1 60 


THE  PLANTER'S  WIFE 

She  suddenly  gave  a  cry  of  shame  and  agony, 
a  low,  trembling  cry,  as  though  her  heart-strings 
were  being  dragged  out.  She  drew  back  from 
him — back  to  the  middle  of  the  room. 

He  came  toward  her,  reaching  out  his  arms. 
"Forgive  me,"  he  said. 

"Oh  no,  never!"  she  cried,  with  horror. 

The  cry  had  been  heard  outside,  and  Houghton 
entered  the  room,  to  find  his  wife,  all  her  strength 
gone,  turning  a  face  of  horror  upon  Cayley.  She 
stretched  out  her  arms  to  her  husband  with  a 
pitiful  cry.  "Tom,"  she  said — "Tom,  take  me 
away." 

He  took  her  gently  in  his  arms. 

Cayley  stood  with  his  hand  upon  his  horse's 
neck. 

"Houghton,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  have 
been  telling  your  wife  what  I  was  and  who  I  am. 
She  is  shocked.  I  had  better  go." 

The  woman's  head  had  dropped  on  her  hus- 
band's shoulder.  Houghton  waited  to  see  if  she 
would  look  up.  But  she  did  not. 

"Well,  good-bye  to  you  both,"  Cayley  said, 
stepped  through  the  window  and  vaulted  on  his 
horse's  back.  "I'm  going  to  see  if  the  devil's  as 
black  as  he's  painted."  Then,  setting  spurs  to 
his  horse,  he  galloped  away  through  the  palms  to 
the  gate. 

A  year  later  Hyland  the  bushranger  was  shot 
in  a  struggle  with  the  mounted  police  sent  to 

161 


CUMNER'S  SON 

capture  him.  The  planter's  wife  read  of  it  in 
England,  whither  she  had  gone  on  a  visit. 

"It  is  better  so,"  she  said  to  herself,  calmly. 
"And  he  wished  it,  I  am  sure." 

For  now  she  knew  the  whole  truth,  and  she  did 
not  love  her  husband  less — but  more. 


THE  last  time  John  Osgood  saw  Barbara  Golding 
was  on  a  certain  summer  afternoon  at  the  lonely 
Post,  Telegraph,  and  Customs  Station  known  as 
Rahway,  on  the  Queensland  coast.  It  was  at 
Rahway  also  that  he  first  and  last  saw  Mr.  Louis 
Bachelor.  He  had  had  excellent  opportunities 
for  knowing  Barbara  Golding;  for  many  years 
she  had  been  governess  (and  something  more) 
to  his  sisters  Janet,  Agnes,  and  Lorna.  She  had 
been  engaged  in  Sydney  as  governess  simply,  but 
Wandenong  cattle  station  was  far  up  country,  and 
she  gradually  came  to  perform  the  functions  of 
milliner  and  dressmaker,  encouraged  thereto  by 
the  family  for  her  unerring  taste  and  skill.  Her 
salary,  however,  had  been  proportionately  in- 
creased, and  it  did  not  decline  when  her  office  as 
governess  became  practically  a  sinecure  as  her  pu- 
pils passed  beyond  the  sphere  of  the  school-room. 
Perhaps  George  Osgood,  father  of  John  Osgood, 
and  owner  of  Wandenong,  did  not  make  an  al- 
lowance to  Barbara  Golding  for  her  services  as 
counsellor  and  confidant  of  his  family ;  but  neither 
did  he  subtract  anything  from  her  earnings  in 

163 


CUMNER'S   SON 

those  infrequent  years  when  she  journeyed  alone 
to  Sydney  on  those  mysterious  visits  which  so 
mightily  puzzled  the  good  people  of  Wandenong. 
The  boldest  and  most  off-hand  of  them,  however, 
could  never  discover  what  Barbara  Golding  did 
not  choose  to  tell.  She  was  slight,  almost  frail 
in  form,  and  very  gentle  of  manner;  but  she 
also  possessed  that  rare  species  of  courtesy  which, 
never  declining  to  fastidiousness  nor  lapsing  into 
familiarity,  checked  all  curious  intrusion,  was 
it  never  so  insinuating;  and  the  milliner  and 
dressmaker  was  not  less  self-poised  and  compelling 
of  respect  than  the  governess  and  confidant. 

In  some  particulars  the  case  of  Louis  Bachelor 
was  similar.  Besides  being  the  Post,  Telegraph, 
and  Customs  officer,  and  Justice  of  the  Peace  at 
Rahway,  he  was  available  and  valuable  to  the 
Government  as  a  meteorologist.  The  Administra- 
tion recognized  this  after  a  few  years  of  voluntary 
and  earnest  labor  on  Louis  Bachelor's  part.  It 
was  not,  however,  his  predictions  concerning  floods 
or  droughts  that  roused  this  official  appreciation, 
but  the  fulfilment  of  those  predictions.  At  length 
a  yearly  honorarium  was  sent  to  him,  and  then 
again,  after  a  dignified  delay,  there  was  forwarded 
to  him  a  suggestion  from  the  Cabinet  that  he 
should  come  to  Brisbane  and  take  a  more  impor- 
tant position.  It  was  when  this  patronage  was 
declined  that  the  Premier  (dropping  for  a  moment 
into  that  bushman's  jargon  which  came  naturally 
to  him)  said,  irritably,  that  Louis  Bachelor  was 

164 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

a  " old  fossil  who  didn't  know  when  he'd 

got  his  dover  in  the  dough,"  which,  being  inter- 
preted into  the  slang  of  the  Old  World,  means  his 
knife  into  the  official  loaf.  But  the  fossil  went 
on  as  before,  known  by  name  to  the  merest  handful 
of  people  in  the  colony,  though  they  all  profited, 
directly  or  indirectly,  by  his  scientific  services. 
He  was  as  unknown  to  the  dwellers  at  Wandenong 
as  they  were  to  him,  or  he  again  to  the  citizens  of 
the  moon. 

It  was  the  custom  for  Janet  and  Agnes  Osgood 
to  say  that  Barbara  Golding  had  a  history.  On 
every  occasion  the  sentiment  was  uttered  with 
that  fresh  conviction  in  tone  which  made  it 
appear  to  be  born  again.  It  seemed  to  have 
especially  pregnant  force  one  evening  after  Janet 
had  been  consulting  Barbara  on  the  mysteries 
of  the  garment  in  which  she  was  to  be  married  to 
Druce  Stephens,  part  owner  of  Booldal  Station. 

"Aggie,"  remarked  the  coming  bride,  "Bar- 
bara's face  flushed  up  ever  so  pink  when  I  said  to 
her  that  she  seemed  to  know  exactly  what  a 
trousseau  ought  to  be.  I  wonder!  She  is  well- 
bred  enough  to  have  been  anybody;  and  the 
Bishop  of  Adelaide  recommended  her,  you  know." 

Soon  after  this  Druce  Stephens  arrived  at 
Wandenong  and  occupied  the  attention  of  Janet 
until  supper-time,  when  he  startled  the  company 
by  the  tale  of  his  adventures  on  the  previous 
evening  with  Roadmaster,  the  mysterious  bush- 
ranger, whose  name  was  now  in  every  man's 

165 


CUMNER'S  SON 

mouth;  who  apparently  worked  with  no  con- 
federates— a  perilous  proceeding,  though  it  re- 
duced the  chances  of  betrayal.  Druce  was  about 
to  camp  on  the  plains  for  the  night,  in  preference 
to  riding  on  to  a  miserable  bush-tavern  a  few 
miles  away,  when  he  was  suddenly  accosted  in 
the  scrub  by  a  gallant-looking  fellow  on  horse- 
back, who,  from  behind  his  mask,  asked  him  to 
give  up  what  money  he  had  about  him,  together 
with  his  watch  and  ring.  The  request  was  em- 
phasized by  the  presence  of  a  revolver  held  at  an 
easy  but  suggestive  angle.  The  disadvantage  to 
the  squatter  was  obvious.  He  merely  asked  that 
he  should  be  permitted  to  keep  the  ring,  as  it  had 
many  associations,  remarking  at  the  same  time 
that  he  would  be  pleased  to  give  an  equivalent 
for  it  if  the  bushranger  would  come  to  Wande- 
nong.  At  the  mention  of  Wandenong  the  high- 
wayman asked  his  name.  On  being  told,  he 
handed  back  the  money,  the  watch,  and  the  ring, 
and  politely  requested  a  cigar,  saying  that  the 
Osgoods  merited  consideration  at  his  hands,  and 
that  their  friends  were  safe  from  molestation. 
Then  he  added,  with  some  grim  humor,  that  if 
Druce  had  no  objection  to  spending  an  hour  with 
Roadmaster  over  a  fire  and  a  billy  of  tea,  he 
would  be  glad  of  his  company;  for  bushranging, 
according  to  his  system,  was  but  dull  work.  The 
young  squatter  consented,  and  together  they  sat 
for  two  hours,  the  highwayman,  however,  never 
removing  his  mask.  They  talked  of  many  things, 

1 66 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

and  at  last  Druce  ventured  to  ask  his  companion 
about  the  death  of  Blood  Finchley,  the  owner  of 
Tarawan  sheep-run.  At  this  Roadmaster  be- 
came weary,  and  rose  to  leave;  but  as  if  on  second 
thought,  he  said  that  Finchley's  companion,  whom 
he  allowed  to  go  unrobbed  and  untouched,  was 
both  a  coward  and  a  liar;  that  the  slain  man  had 
fired  thrice  needlessly,  and  had  wounded  him  in 
the  neck  (the  scar  of  which  he  showed)  before  he 
drew  trigger.  Druce  then  told  him  that  besides 
a  posse  of  police,  a  number  of  squatters  and  bush- 
men  had  banded  to  hunt  him  down,  and  advised 
him  to  make  for  the  coast  if  he  could,  and  leave 
the  country.  At  this  Roadmaster  laughed,  and 
said  that  his  fancy  was  not  seaward  yet,  though 
that  might  come;  and  then,  with  a  courteous 
wave  of  his  hand,  he  jumped  on  his  horse  and 
rode  away. 

The  Osgoods  speculated  curiously  and  futilely 
on  Roadmaster's  identity,  as  indeed  the  whole 
colony  had  done.  And  here  it  may  be  said  that 
people  of  any  observation  (though,  of  necessity, 
they  were  few,  since  Rahway  attracted  only  busy 
sugar-planters  and  their  workmen)  were  used  to 
speak  of  Louis  Bachelor  as  one  who  must  cer- 
tainly have  a  history.  The  person  most  likely  to 
have  the  power  of  inquisition  into  his  affairs  was 
his  faithful  aboriginal  servant,  Gongi.  But  rec- 
ords and  history  were  only  understood  by  Gongi 
when  they  were  restricted  to  the  number  of 
heads  taken  in  tribal  battle.  At  the  same  time 

167 


CUMNER'S   SON 

he  was  a  devoted  slave  to  the  man  who,  at  the 
risk  of  his  own  life,  had  rescued  him  from  the 
murderous  spears  of  his  aboriginal  foes.  That 
was  a  kind  of  record  within  Gongi's  comprehen- 
sion, from  the  contemplation  of  which  he  turned 
to  speak  of  Louis  Bachelor  as  "  That  fellow 
budgery  marmi  b'longin'  to  me,"  which,  in  civil- 
ized language,  means  "my  good  master."  Gongi 
often  dilated  on  this  rescue,  and  he  would,  for 
purposes  of  illustration,  take  down  from  his  mas- 
ter's wall  an  artillery  officer's  sabre  and  show  how 
his  assailants  had  been  dispersed. 

From  the  presence  of  this  sword  it  was  not  un- 
reasonably assumed  that  Louis  Bachelor  had  at 
some  time  been  in  the  army.  He  was  not,  how- 
ever, communicative  on  this  point,  though  he 
shrewdly  commented  on  European  wars  and  ru- 
mors of  wars  when  they  occurred.  He  also  held 
strenuous  opinions  on  the  conduct  of  Government 
and  the  suppression  of  public  evils,  based  obvious- 
ly upon  military  views  of  things.  For  bush- 
rangers he  would  have  a  modern  Tyburn,  but  this 
and  other  tragic  suggestions  lacked  conviction 
when  confronted  with  his  verdicts  given  as  Jus- 
tice of  the  Peace.  He  pronounced  judgments  in  a 
grand  and  airy  fashion,  but  as  if  he  were  speaking 
by  the  card,  a  Don  Quixote  whose  mercy  would 
be  vaster  than  his  wrath.  This  was  the  impres- 
sion he  gave  to  John  Osgood  on  the  day  when  the 
young  squatter  introduced  himself  to  Rah  way, 
where  he  had  come  on  a  mission  to  its  one  official. 

168 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

The  young  man's  father  had  a  taste  for  many 
things;  astronomy  was  his  latest,  and  he  had 
bought  from  the  Government  a  telescope  which, 
excellent  in  its  day,  had  been  superseded  by  others 
of  later  official  purchase.  He  had  brought  it  to 
Wandenong,  had  built  a  home  for  it,  and  had  got 
it  into  trouble.  He  had  then  sent  to  Brisbane  for 
assistance,  and  the  astronomer  of  the  Government 
had  referred  him  to  the  postmaster  at  Rah  way, 
"  Prognosticator  "  of  the  meteorological  column  in 
The  Courier,  who  would  be  instructed  to  give  Mr. 
Osgood  every  help,  especially  as  the  occultation 
of  Venus  was  near.  Men  do  not  send  letters  by 
post  in  a  new  country  when  personal  communi- 
cation is  possible,  and  John  Osgood  was  asked  by 
his  father  to  go  to  Rah  way.  When  John  wished 
for  the  name  of  this  rare  official,  the  astronomer's 
letter  was  handed  over  with  a  sarcastic  request 
that  the  name  might  be  deciphered;  but  the  son 
was  not  more  of  an  antiquary  than  his  father, 
and  he  had  to  leave  without  it.  He  rode  to  the 
coast,  and  there  took  a  passing  steamer  to  Rah- 
way. 

From  the  sea  Rahway  looked  a  tropical  para- 
dise. The  bright  green  palisades  of  mangrove  on 
the  right  crowded  down  to  the  water's  edge;  on 
the  left  was  the  luxuriance  of  a  tropical  jungle; 
in  the  centre  was  an  arc  of  opal  shore  fringed  with 
cocoa-palms,  and  beyond  the  sea  a  handful  of 
white  dwellings.  Behind  was  a  sweeping  monot- 
ony of  verdure  stretching  back  into  the  great 

169 


CUMNER'S  SON 

valley  of  the  Popri,  and  over  all  the  heavy  lan- 
guor of  the  South. 

But  the  beauty  was  a  delusion.  When  John 
Osgood's  small  boat  swept  up  the  sands  on  the 
white  crest  of  a  league-long  roller,  how  different 
was  the  scene!  He  saw  a  group  of  dilapidated 
huts,  a  tavern  called  The  Angel's  Rest,  a  black- 
fellow's  hut,  and  the  bareness  of  three  Govern- 
ment offices,  all  built  on  piles,  that  the  white  ants 
should  not  humble  them  suddenly  to  the  dust; 
a  fever-making  mangrove  swamp,  black  at  the 
base  as  the  filthiest  moat,  and  tenanted  by  reptiles ; 
feeble  palms,  and  a  sickly  breath  creeping  from 
the  jungle  to  mingle  with  the  heavy  scent  of  the 
last  consignment  of  sugar  from  the  Popri  valley. 
It  brought  him  to  a  melancholy  standstill,  dis- 
turbed at  last  by  Gongi  touching  him  on  the  arm 
and  pointing  toward  the  post-office.  His  lan- 
guage to  Gongi  was  strong;  he  called  the  place 
by  names  that  were  not  polite;  and  even  on 
the  threshold  of  the  official  domain  said  that  the 
devil  would  have  his  last  big  muster  there.  But 
from  that  instant  his  glibness  declined.  The 
squatters  are  the  aristocracy  of  Australia,  and 
rural  postmasters  are  not  always  considered 
eligible  for  a  dinner-party  at  Government  House; 
but  when  Louis  Bachelor  came  forward  to  meet 
his  visitor  the  young  fellow's  fingers  quickly 
caught  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  an  off-hand 
greeting  became  a  respectful  salute. 

At  first  the  young  man  was  awed  by  the  presence 
170 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

of  the  grizzled  gentleman,  and  he  struggled  with 
his  language  to  bring  it  up  to  the  classic  level  of 
the  old  meteorologist's  speech.  Before  they  had 
spoken  a  dozen  words  John  Osgood  said  to  him- 
self: "What  a  quaint  team  he  and  the  Maid  of 
Honor  would  make!  It's  the  same  kind  of  thing 
in  both,  with  the  difference  of  sex  and  circum- 
stance." The  nature  of  his  visitor's  business 
pleased  the  old  man,  and  infused  his  courtesy  with 
warmth.  Yes,  he  would  go  to  Wandenong  with 
pleasure;  the  Government  had  communicated 
with  him  about  it;  a  substitute  had  been  of- 
fered ;  he  was  quite  willing  to  take  his  first  leave 
in  four  years;  astronomy  was  a  great  subject,  he 
had  a  very  good  and  obedient  telescope  of  his 
own,  though  not  nearly  so  large  as  that  at  Wande- 
nong ;  he  would  telegraph  at  once  to  Brisbane  for 
the  substitute  to  be  sent  on  the  following  day,  and 
would  be  ready  to  start  in  twenty-four  hours. 
After  visiting  Wandenong  he  would  go  to  Brisbane 
for  some  scientific  necessaries — and  so  on  through 
smooth  parentheses  of  talk.  Under  all  the  blunt- 
ness  of  the  Bush  young  Osgood  had  a  refinement 
which  now  found  expression  in  an  attempt  to 
make  himself  agreeable — not  a  difficult  task,  since, 
thanks  to  his  father's  tastes  and  a  year  or  two  at 
college,  he  had  a  smattering  of  physical  science. 
He  soon  won  his  way  to  the  old  man's  heart,  and 
to  his  laboratory,  which  had  been  developed 
through  years  of  patience  and  ingenious  toil  in 
this  desolate  spot. 

171 


CUMMER'S  SON 

Left  alone  that  evening  in  Louis  Bachelor's 
sitting-room,  John  Osgood's  eyes  were  caught  by 
a  portrait  on  the  wall,  the  likeness  of  a  beautiful 
girl.  Something  about  the  face  puzzled  him. 
Where  had  he  seen  it?  More  than  a  little  of  an 
artist,  he  began  to  reproduce  the  head  on  paper. 
He  put  it  in  different  poses ;  he  added  to  it  he 
took  away  from  it;  he  gave  it  a  child's  face, 
preserving  the  one  striking  expression;  he  made 
it  that  of  a  woman — of  an  elderly,  grave  woman. 
Why,  what  was  this?  Barbara  Golding!  He 
would  not  spoil  the  development  of  the  drama,  of 
which  he  now  held  the  fluttering  prologue,  by 
any  blunt  treatment;  he  would  touch  this  and 
that  nerve  gently  to  see  what  past  connection 
there  was  between 

"These  dim  blown  birds  beneath  an  alien  sky." 

He  mooned  along  in  this  fashion — a  fashion  in 
which  his  bushmen  friends  would  not  have  known 
him — until  his  host  entered.  Then,  in  that  au- 
spicious moment  when  his  own  pipe  and  his  com- 
panion's cigarette  were  being  lighted,  he  said: 
"I've  been  amusing  myself  with  drawing  since  you 
left,  sir,  and  I've  produced  this,"  handing  over 
the  paper. 

Louis  Bachelor  took  the  sketch,  and,  walking 
to  the  window  for  better  light,  said:  "Believe  me, 
I  have  a  profound  respect  for  the  artistic  talent. 
I  myself  once  had — ah!"  He  sharply  paused  as 
he  saw  the  pencilled  head,  and  stood  looking 

172 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

fixedly  at  it.  Presently  he  turned  slowly,  came 
to  the  portrait  on  the  wall,  and  compared  it  with 
that  in  his  hand.  Then,  with  a  troubled  face,  he 
said:  "You  have  much  talent,  but  it  is — it  is  too 
old — much  too  old — and  very  sorrowful." 

"I  intended  the  face  to  show  age  and  sorrow, 
Mr.  Bachelor.  Would  not  the  original  of  that 
have  both?" 

"She  had  sorrow — she  had  sorrow,  but,"  and 
he  looked  sadly  at  the  sketch  again,  "it  is  too  old 
for  her.  Her  face  was  very  young — always  very 
young." 

"But  has  she  not  sorrow  now,  sir?"  the  other 
persisted,  gently. 

The  gray  head  was  shaken  sadly,  and  the 
unsteady  voice  meditatively  murmured:  "Such 
beauty,  such  presence!  I  was  but  five-and -thirty 
then."  There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then,  with 
his  hand  touching  the  young  man's  shoulder, 
Louis  Bachelor  continued :  ' '  You  are  young ;  you 
have  a  good  heart;  I  know  men.  You  have  the 
sympathy  of  the  artist — why  should  I  not  speak 
to  you?  I  have  been  silent  about  it  so  long. 
You  have  brought  the  past  back,  I  know  not  how, 
so  vividly!  I  dream  here,  I  work  here;  men 
come  with  merchandise  and  go  again;  they  only 
bind  my  tongue;  I  am  not  of  them:  but  you  are 
different,  as  it  seems  to  me,  and  young.  God 
gave  me  a  happy  youth.  My  eyes  were  bright  as 
yours,  my  heart  as  fond.  You  love — is  it  not  so  ? 
Ah,  you  smile  and  blush  like  an  honest  man. 


CUMNER'S   SON 

Well,  so  much  the  more  I  can  speak  now.  God 
gave  me  then  strength  and  honor  and  love — 
blessed  be  His  name!  And  then  He  visited  me 
with  sorrow,  and,  if  I  still  mourn,  I  have  peace, 
too,  and  a  busy  life."  Here  he  looked  at  the 
sketch  again.  "Then  I  was  a  soldier.  She  was 
my  world.  Ah,  true,  love  is  a  great  thing — a 
great  thing!  She  had  a  brother.  They  two  with 
their  mother  were  alone  in  the  world,  and  we  were 
to  be  married.  One  day  at  Gibraltar  I  received 
a  letter  from  her  saying  that  our  marriage  could 
not  be;  that  she  was  going  away  from  England; 
that  those  lines  were  her  farewell;  and  that  she 
commended  me  to  the  love  of  Heaven.  Such  a 
letter  it  was — so  saintly,  so  unhappy,  so  mys- 
terious! When  I  could  get  leave  I  went  to 
England.  She — they — had  gone,  and  none  knew 
whither ;  or,  if  any  of  her  friends  knew,  none  would 
speak.  I  searched  for  her  everywhere.  At  last 
I  came  to  Australia,  and  I  am  here,  no  longer 
searching,  but  waiting,  for  there  is  that  above  us!" 
His  lips  moved  as  if  in  prayer.  "And  this  is  all 
I  have  left  of  her,  except  memory,"  he  said, 
tenderly  touching  the  portrait. 

Warmly,  yet  with  discreet  sympathy,  the  young 
man  rejoined:  "Sir,  I  respect,  and  I  hope  I  under- 
stand, your  confidence. ' '  Then,  a  little  nervously : 
"Might  I  ask  her  name?" 

The  reply  was  spoken  to  the  portrait :  ' '  Barbara 
— Barbara  Golding." 

With  Louis  Bachelor  the  young  squatter  ap- 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

preached  Wandenong  homestead  in  some  excite- 
ment. He  had  said  no  word  to  his  companion 
about  that  Barbara  Golding  who  played  such  a 
gracious  part  in  the  home  of  the  Osgoods.  He 
had  arranged  the  movement  of  the  story  to  his 
fancy,  but  would  it  occur  in  all  as  he  hoped? 
With  an  amiability  that  was  almost  malicious  in  its 
adroit  suggestiveness,  though,  to  be  sure,  it  was 
honest,  he  had  induced  the  soldier  to  talk  of  his 
past.  His  words  naturally,  and  always,  radiated 
to  the  sun,  whose  image  was  now  hidden,  but  for 
whose  memory  no  superscription  on  monument  or 
cenotaph  was  needed.  Now  it  was  a  scrap  of 
song,  then  a  tale,  and  again  a  verse,  by  which  the 
old  soldier  was  delicately  worked  upon,  until  at 
last,  as  they  entered  the  paddocks  of  Wandenong, 
stars  and  telescopes  and  even  governments  had 
been  forgotten  in  the  personal  literature  of  sen- 
timent. 

Yet  John  Osgood  was  not  quite  at  his  ease. 
Now  that  it  was  at  hand,  he  rather  shrank  from 
the  meeting  of  these  ancient  loves.  Apart  from 
all  else,  he  knew  that  no  woman's  nerves  are  to 
be  trusted.  He  hoped  fortune  would  so  favor 
him  that  he  could  arrange  for  the  meeting  of  the 
two  alone,  or,  at  least,  in  his  presence  only.  He 
had  so  far  fostered  this  possibility  by  arriving  at 
the  station  at  nightfall.  What  next  ?  He  turned 
and  looked  at  the  soldier,  a  figure  out  of  Hogarth, 
which  even  dust  and  travel  left  unspoiled.  It 
was  certain  that  the  two  should  meet  where  John 
12  i7S 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Osgood,  squatter  and  romancer,  should  be  prompt- 
er, orchestra,  and  audience,  and  he  alone.  Vain  lad ! 

When  they  drew  rein  the  young  man  took  his 
companion  at  once  to  his  own  detached  quarters 
known  as  the  Barracks,  and  then  proceeded  to  the 
house.  After  greetings  with  his  family  he  sought 
Barbara  Golding,  who  was  in  the  school-room, 
piously  employed,  Agnes  said,  in  putting  the  final 
touches  to  Janet's  trousseau.  He  went  across  the 
square  to  the  school-room,  and,  looking  through 
the  window,  saw  that  she  was  quite  alone.  A 
few  moments  later  he  stood  at  the  school-room 
door  with  Louis  Bachelor.  With  his  hand  on 
the  latch  he  hesitated.  Was  it  not  fairer  to  give 
some  warning  to  either?  Too  late!  He  opened 
the  door  and  they  entered.  She  was  sewing,  and 
a  book  lay  open  beside  her,  a  faded  but  stately 
little  figure  whose  very  garments  had  an  air.  She 
rose,  seeing  at  first  only  John  Osgood,  who  greeted 
her  and  then  said,  ' '  Miss  Golding,  I  have  brought 
you  an  old  friend." 

Then  he  stepped  back  and  the  two  were  face 
to  face.  Barbara  Golding's  cheeks  became  pale, 
but  she  did  not  stir ;  the  soldier,  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  surprise  half  joyful,  half  pathetic,  took  a 
step  forward,  and  then  became  motionless  also. 
Their  eyes  met  and  stayed  intent.  This  was  not 
quite  what  the  young  man  had  expected.  At 
length  the  soldier  bowed  low,  and  the  woman  re- 
sponded gravely.  At  this  point  Osgood  withdrew 
to  stand  guard  at  the  door. 

176 


BARBARA  GOLD1NG 

Barbara  Golding's  eyes  were  dim  with  tears. 
The  soldier  gently  said,  "I  received — "  and  then 
paused.  She  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  "I  received 
a  letter  from  you  five-and-twenty  years  ago." 

"Yes,  five-and-twenty  years  ago." 

' '  I  hope  you  cannot  guess  what  pain  it  gave  me. " 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  faintly,  "I  can  conceive 
it,  from  the  pain  it  gave  to  me." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  then  he  stepped  for- 
ward, and,  holding  out  his  hand,  said,  "Will  you 
permit  me?"  He  kissed  her  fingers  courteously, 
and  she  blushed.  "I  have  waited,"  he  added, 
"for  God  to  bring  this  to  pass."  She  shook  her 
head  sadly,  and  her  eyes  sought  his  beseechingly, 
as  though  he  should  spare  her;  but  perhaps  he 
could  not  see  that.  "You  spoke  of  a  great  ob- 
stacle then;  has  it  been  removed?" 

"It  is  still  between  us,"  she  murmured. 

"Is  it  likely  ever  to  vanish?" 

"I— I  do  not  know." 

"You  cannot  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

"Oh,  you  will  not  ask  me,"  she  pleaded. 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  then  spoke.  "Might  I 
dare  to  hope,  Barbara,  that  you  still  regard  me 
with — "  he  hesitated. 

The  fires  of  a  modest  valor  fluttered  in  her 
cheeks,  and  she  pieced  out  his  sentence:  "With 
all  my  life's  esteem."  But  she  was  a  woman,  and 
she  added,  "But  I  am  not  young  now,  and  I  am 
very  poor." 

"Barbara,"  he  said;  "I  am  not  rich  and  I  am 
177 


CUMNER'S  SON 

old;   but  you,  you  have  not  changed;    you  are 
beautiful,  as  you  always  were." 

The  moment  was  crucial.  He  stepped  toward 
her,  but  her  eyes  held  him  back.  He  hoped  that 
she  would  speak,  but  she  only  smiled  sadly.  He 
waited,  but,  in  the  waiting,  hope  faded,  and  he 
only  said,  at  last,  in  a  voice  of  new  resolve  grown 
out  of  dead  expectancy:  "Your  brother — is  he 
well?" 

"I  hope  so,"  she  somewhat  painfully  replied. 

"Is  he  in  Australia?" 

"Yes.  I  have  not  seen  him  for  years,  but  he 
is  here." 

As  if  a  thought  had  suddenly  come  to  him,  he 
stepped  nearer,  and  made  as  if  he  would  speak; 
but  the  words  halted  on  his  lips,  and  he  turned 
away  again.  She  glided  to  his  side  and  touched 
his  arm.  "I  am  glad  that  you  trust  me,"  she 
faltered. 

"There  is  no  more  that  need  be  said,"  he  an- 
swered. 

And  now,  womanlike,  denying,  she  pitied  too. 
"If  I  ever  can,  shall — shall  I  send  for  you  to  tell 
you  all?"  she  murmured. 

"You  remember  I  told  you  that  the  world  had 
but  one  place  for  me,  and  that  was  by  your  side; 
that  where  you  are,  Barbara — 

"Hush,  oh  hush!"  she  interrupted,  gently. 
"Yes,  I  remember  everything." 

"There  is  no  power  can  alter  what  is  come  of 
Heaven,"  he  said,  smiling  faintly. 

178 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

She  looked  with  limpid  eyes  upon  him  as  he 
bowed  over  her  hand,  and  she  spoke  with  a  sweet 
calm,  "God  be  with  you,  Louis." 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  John  Osgood  did  not 
tell  his  sisters  and  his  family  of  this  romance 
which  he  had  brought  to  the  vivid  close  of  a  first 
act.  He  felt — the  more  so  because  Louis  Bachelor 
had  said  no  word  about  it,  but  had  only  pressed 
his  hand  again  and  again — that  he  was  somehow 
put  upon  his  honor,  and  he  thought  it  a  fine  thing 
to  stand  on  a  platform  of  unspoken  compact  with 
this  gentleman  of  a  social  school  unfamiliar  to 
him;  from  which  it  may  be  seen  that  cattle- 
breeding  and  bullock-driving  need  not  make  a 
man  a  boor.  What  his  sisters  guessed  when  they 
found  that  Barbara  Golding  and  the  visitor  were 
old  friends  is  another  matter;  but  they  could  not 
pierce  their  brother's  reserve  on  the  point. 

No  one  at  Wandenong  saw  the  parting  between 
the  two  when  Louis  Bachelor,  his  task  with  the 
telescope  ended,  left  again  for  the  coast;  but  in- 
deed it  might  have  been  seen  by  all  men,  so  out- 
wardly formal  was  it,  even  as  their  brief  conver- 
sations had  been  since  they  met  again.  But  is  it 
not  known  by  those  who  look  closely  upon  the 
world  that  there  is  nothing  so  tragic  as  the  formal  ? 

John  Osgood  accompanied  his  friend  to  the  sea, 
but  the  name  of  Barbara  Golding  was  not  men- 
tioned, nor  was  any  reference  made  to  her  until 
the  moment  of  parting.  Then  the  elder  man 
said:  "Sir,  your  consideration  and  delicacy  of 

179 


CUMNER'S    SON 

feeling  have  moved  me,  and  touched  her.  We 
have  not  been  blind  to  your  singular  kindness  of 
heart  and  courtesy,  and — God  bless  you,  my 
friend!" 

On  his  way  back  to  Wandenong,  Osgood  heard 
exciting  news  of  Roadmaster.  The  word  had 
been  passed  among  the  squatters  who  had  united 
to  avenge  Finchley's  death  that  the  bushranger 
was  to  be  shot  on  sight,  that  he  should  not  be  left 
to  the  uncertainty  of  the  law.  The  latest  exploit 
of  the  daring  freebooter  had  been  to  stop  on  the 
plains  two  members  of  a  Royal  Commission  of 
Inquiry.  He  had  relieved  them  of  such  money 
as  was  in  their  pockets,  and  then  had  caused  them 
to  write  sumptuous  checks  on  their  banks,  payable 
to  bearer.  These  he  had  cashed  in  the  very  teeth 
of  the  law,  and  actually  paused  in  the  street  to 
read  a  description  of  himself  posted  on  a  telegraph- 
pole.  "Inaccurate,  quite  inaccurate,"  he  said  to 
a  bystander  as  he  drew  his  riding-whip  slowly 
along  it,  and  then,  mounting  his  horse,  rode 
leisurely  away  into  the  plains.  Had  he  been 
followed  it  would  have  been  seen  that  he  directed 
his  course  to  that  point  in  the  horizon  where 
Wandenong  lay,  and  held  to  it. 

It  would  not  perhaps  have  been  pleasant  to 
Agnes  Osgood  had  she  known  that,  as  she  hummed 
a  song  under  a  she-oak,  a  mile  away  from  the 
homestead,  a  man  was  watching  her  from  a  clump 
of  scrub  near  by;  a  man  who,  however  gentle- 
manly his  bearing,  had  a  face  where  the  devil  of 

1 80 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

despair  had  set  his  foot,  and  who  carried  in  his 
pocket  more  than  one  weapon  of  inhospitable 
suggestion.  But  the  man  intended  no  harm  to 
her,  for,  while  she  sang,  something  seemed  to 
smooth  away  the  active  evil  of  his  countenance, 
and  to  dispel  a  threatening  alertness  that  marked 
the  whole  personality. 

Three  hours  later  this  same  man  crouched  by 
the  drawing-room  window  of  the  Wandenong 
homestead  and  looked  in,  listening  to  the  same 
voice,  until  Barbara  Golding  entered  the  room 
and  took  a  seat  near  the  piano,  with  her  face 
turned  full  toward  him.  Then  he  forgot  the 
music  and  looked  long  at  the  face,  and  at  last 
rose,  and  stole  silently  away  to  where  his  horse 
was  tied  in  the  scrub.  He  mounted,  and,  turning 
toward  the  house,  muttered:  "A  little  more  of 
this,  and  good-bye  to  my  nerves!  But  it's  pleas- 
ant to  have  the  taste  of  it  in  my  mouth  for  a 
minute.  How  would  it  look  in  Roadmaster's 
biography  that  a  girl  just  out  of  school  brought 
the  rain  to  his  eyes?"  He  laughed  a  little 
bitterly,  and  then  went  on:  "Poor  Barbara!  She 
mustn't  know  while  I'm  alive.  Stretch  out,  my 
nag;  we've  a  long  road  to  travel  to-night." 

This  was  Edward  Golding,  the  brother  whom 
Barbara  thought  was  still  in  prison  at  Sydney 
under  another  name,  serving  a  term  of  ten  years 
for  manslaughter.  If  she  had  read  the  papers 
more  carefully  she  would  have  known  that  he  had 
been  released  two  years  before  his  time  was  up. 

181 


CUMNER'S    SON 

It  was  eight  years  since  she  had  seen  him.  Twice 
since  then  she  had  gone  to  visit  him,  but  he  would 
not  see  her.  Bad  as  he  had  been,  his  desire  was 
still  strong  that  the  family  name  should  not  be 
publicly  reviled.  At  his  trial  his  real  name  had 
not  been  made  known,  and  at  his  request  his 
sister  sent  him  no  letters.  Going  into  prison  a 
reckless  man  he  came  out  a  constitutional  criminal, 
with  the  natural  instinct  for  crime  greater  than 
the  instinct  for  morality.  He  turned  bushranger 
for  one  day,  to  get  money  to  take  him  out  of  the 
country;  but  having  once  entered  the  lists  he 
left  them  no  more,  and,  playing  at  deadly  joust 
with  the  law,  soon  became  known  as  Roadmaster, 
the  most  noted  bushranger  since  the  days  of 
Captain  Starlight. 

It  was  forgery  on  the  name  of  his  father's 
oldest  friend  that  had  driven  him  from  England. 
He  had  the  choice  of  leaving  his  native  land  for- 
ever or  going  to  prison,  and  he  chose  the  former. 
The  sorrow  of  the  crime  killed  his  mother.  From 
Adelaide,  where  he  and  Barbara  had  made  their 
new  home,  he  wandered  to  the  far  interior  and 
afterward  to  Sydney ;  then  came  his  imprisonment 
on  a  charge  of  manslaughter,  and  now  he  was 
free — but  what  a  freedom! 

With  the  name  of  Roadmaster  often  heard  at 
Wandenong,  Barbara  Golding's  heart  had  no 
warning  instinct  of  who  the  bushranger  was.  She 
thought  only  and  continuously  of  the  day  when 
her  brother  should  be  released,  to  begin  the  race 

182 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

of  life  again  with  her.  She  had  yet  to  learn  in 
what  manner  they  come  to  the  finish  who  make  a 
false  start. 

Louis  Bachelor,  again  in  his  place  at  Rahway, 
tried  to  drive  away  his  guesses  at  the  truth  by  his 
beloved  science.  When  sleep  would  not  come  at 
night  he  rose  and  worked  in  his  laboratory;  and 
the  sailors  of  many  a  passing  vessel  saw  the  light 
of  his  lamp  in  the  dim  hours  before  the  dawn,  and 
spoke  of  fever  in  the  port  of  Rahway.  Nor  did 
they  speak  without  reason;  fever  was  preparing 
a  victim  for  the  sacrifice  at  Rahway,  and  Louis 
Bachelor  was  fed  with  its  poison  till  he  grew 
haggard  and  weak. 

One  night  he  was  sending  his  weather  prognos- 
tications to  Brisbane  when  a  stranger  entered 
from  the  shore.  The  old  man  did  not  at  first 
look  up,  and  the  other  leisurely  studied  him  as 
the  sounder  clicked  its  message.  When  the  key 
was  closed  the  new-comer  said,  "Can  you  send  a 
message  to  Brisbane  for  me?" 

"It  is  after  hours;   I  cannot,"  was  the  reply. 

"But  you  were  just  sending  one." 

"That  was  official,"  and  the  elder  man  passed 
his  hand  wearily  along  his  forehead.  He  was 
very  pale. 

The  other  drew  the  telegraph  -  forms  toward 
him  and  wrote  on  one,  saying  as  he  did  so,  "My 
business  is  important;"  then  handing  over  what 
he  had  written,  and,  smiling  ironically,  added, 
"Perhaps  you  will  consider  that  official." 

183 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Louis  Bachelor  took  the  paper  and  read  as 
follows:  "To  the  Colonial  Secretary,  Brisbane — / 
am  here  to-night;  to-morrow  find  me.  Roadmaster." 
He  read  it  twice  before  he  fully  comprehended  it. 
Then  he  said,  as  if  awaking  from  a  dream,  "You 
are—" 

"I  am  Roadmaster,"  said  the  other. 

But  now  the  soldier  and  official  in  the  other 
were  awake.  He  drew  himself  up,  and  appeared 
to  measure  his  visitor  as  a  swordsman  would  his 
enemy.  "What  is  your  object  in  coming  here?" 
he  asked. 

"For  you  to  send  that  message  if  you  choose. 
That  you  may  arrest  me  peaceably  if  you  wish; 
or  there  are  men  at  The  Angel's  Rest  and  a  China- 
man or  two  here  who  might  care  for  active  service 
against  Roadmaster."  He  laughed  carelessly. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  give  yourself 
up  to  me?" 

"Yes,  to  you,  Louis  Bachelor,  Justice  of  the 
Peace,  to  do  what  you  will  with  for  this  night," 
was  the  reply. 

The  soldier's  hands  trembled,  but  it  was  from 
imminent  illness,  not  from  fear  or  excitement. 
He  came  slowly  toward  the  bushranger  who, 
smiling,  said  as  he  advanced,  "Yes,  arrest  me!" 

Louis  Bachelor  raised  his  hand,  as  though  to 
lay  it  on  the  shoulder  of  the  other ;  but  something 
in  the  eyes  of  the  highwayman  stayed  his  hand. 

"Proceed,  Captain  Louis  Bachelor,"  said  Road- 
master,  in  a  changed  tone. 

184 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

The  hand  fell  to  the  old  man's  side.  ' '  Who  are 
you?"  he  faintly  exclaimed.  "I  know  you,  yet 
I  cannot  quite  remember." 

More  and  more  the  voice  and  manner  of  the  out- 
law altered  as  he  replied  with  mocking  bitterness : 
"I  was  Edward  Golding,  gentleman;  I  became 
Edward  Golding,  forger;  I  am  Roadmaster,  con- 
victed of  manslaughter,  and  bushranger." 

The  old  man's  state  was  painful  to  see. 

"You — you — that,  Edward!"  he  uttered,  brok- 
enly. 

"All  that.     Will  you  arrest  me  now?" 

"I— cannot." 

The  bushranger  threw  aside  all  bravado  and 
irony,  and  said:  "I  knew  you  could  not.  Why 
did  I  come?  Listen — but  first,  will  you  shelter 
me  here  to-night?" 

The  soldier's  honorable  soul  rose  up  against 
this  thing,  but  he  said  slowly  at  last,  "If  it  is  to 
save  you  from  peril,  yes." 

Roadmaster  laughed  a  little  and  rejoined:  "By 
God,  sir,  you're  a  man!  But  it  isn't  likely  that 
I'd  accept  it  of  you,  is  it?  You've  had  it  rough 
enough,  without  my  putting  a  rock  in  your  swag 
that  would  spoil  you  for  the  rest  of  the  tramp. 
You  see,  I've  even  forgotten  how  to  talk  like  a 
gentleman.  And  now,  sir,  I  want  to  show  you, 
for  Barbara's  sake,  my  dirty  log-book." 

Here  he  told  the  tale  of  his  early  sin  and  all 
that  came  of  it.  When  he  had  finished  the  story 
he  spoke  of  Barbara  again.  "She  didn't  want 

185 


CUMNER'S   SON 

to  disgrace  you,  you  understand,"  he  said.  "You 
were  at  Wandenong;  I  know  that,  never  mind 
how.  She'd  marry  you  if  I  were  out  of  the  way. 
Well,  I'm  going  to  be  out  of  the  way.  I'm  going 
to  leave  this  country,  and  she's  to  think  I'm  dead, 
you  see." 

At  this  point  Louis  Bachelor  swayed,  and  would 
have  fallen,  but  that  the  bushranger's  arms  were 
thrown  round  him  and  helped  him  to  a  chair. 
"I'm  afraid  that  I  am  ill,"  he  said;  "call  Gongi. 
Ah!"  He  had  fainted. 

The  bushranger  carried  him  to  a  bed,  and  sum- 
moned Gongi  and  the  woman  from  the  tavern, 
and  in  another  hour  was  riding  away  through  the 
valley  of  the  Popri.  Before  thirty-six  hours  had 
passed  a  note  was  delivered  to  a  station-hand  at 
Wandenong  addressed  to  Barbara  Golding,  and 
signed  by  the  woman  from  The  Angel's  Rest. 
Within  another  two  days  Barbara  Golding  was  at 
the  bedside  of  Captain  Louis  Bachelor,  battling 
with  an  enemy  that  is  so  often  stronger  than  love 
and  always  kinder  than  shame. 

In  his  wanderings  the  sick  man  was  ever  with 
his  youth  and  early  manhood,  and  again  and  again 
he  uttered  Barbara's  name  in  caressing  or  en- 
treaty; though  it  was  the  Barbara  of  far-off  days 
that  he  invoked ;  the  present  one  he  did  not  know. 
But  the  night  in  which  the  crisis,  the  fortunate 
crisis,  of  the  fever  occurred,  he  talked  of  a  great 
flood  coming  from  the  North,  and  in  his  half- 
delirium  bade  them  send  to  headquarters,  and 

186 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

mournfully  muttered  of  drowned  plantations  and 
human  peril.  Was  this  instinct  and  knowledge 
working  through  the  disordered  fancies  of  fever? 
Or  was  it  mere  coincidence  that  the  next  day  a 
great  storm  and  flood  did  sweep  through  the  val- 
ley of  the  Popri,  putting  life  in  danger  and  sub- 
merging plantations? 

It  was  on  this  day  that  Roadmaster  found  him- 
self at  bay  in  the  mangrove  swamp  not  far  from 
the  port  of  Rahway,  where  he  had  expected  to 
find  a  schooner  to  take  him  to  the  New  Hebrides. 
It  had  been  arranged  for  by  a  well-paid  colleague 
in  crime ;  but  the  storm  had  delayed  the  schooner, 
and  the  avenging  squatters  and  bushmen  were 
closing  in  on  him  at  last.  There  was  flood  behind 
him  in  the  valley,  a  foodless  swamp  on  the  left  of 
him,  open  shore  and  jungle  on  the  right,  the 
swollen  sea  before  him;  and  the  only  avenue  of 
escape  closed  by  Blood  Finchley's  friends.  He 
had  been  eluding  his  pursuers  for  days  with  little 
food  and  worse  than  no  sleep.  He  knew  that  he 
had  played  his  last  card  and  lost ;  but  he  had  one 
thing  yet  to  do;  that  which  even  the  vilest  do,  if 
they  can,  before  they  pay  the  final  penalty — to 
creep  back  for  a  moment  into  their  honest  past, 
however  dim  and  far  away.  With  incredible  skill 
he  had  passed  under  the  very  rifles  of  his  hunters, 
and  now  stood  almost  within  the  stream  of  light 
which  came  from  the  window  of  the  sick  man's 
room,  where  his  sister  was.  There  was  to  be  no 
more  hiding,  no  more  strategy.  He  told  Gongi 

187 


CUMNER'S   SON 

and  another  that  he  was  Roadmaster,  and  bade 
them  say  to  his  pursuers,  should  they  appear, 
that  he  would  come  to  them  upon  the  shore  when 
his  visit  to  Louis  Bachelor,  whom  he  had  known 
in  other  days,  was  over,  indicating  the  place  at 
some  distance  from  the  house  where  they  would 
find  him. 

He  entered  the  house.  The  noise  of  the  open- 
ing door  brought  his  sister  to  the  room. 

At  last  she  said:  "Oh,  Edward,  you  are  free  at 
last!" 

"Yes,  I  am  free  at  last,"  he  quietly  replied. 

"I  have  always  prayed  for  you,  Edward,  and 
for  this." 

"I  know  that,  Barbara;  but  prayer  cannot  do 
anything,  can  it?  You  see,  though  I  was  born  a 
gentleman,  I  had  a  bad  strain  in  me.  I  wonder 
if,  somewhere,  generations  back,  there  was  a  pirate 
or  a  gypsy  in  our  family."  He  had  been  going  to 
say  highwayman,  but  paused  in  time.  "I  always 
intended  to  be  good  and  always  ended  by  being 
bad.  I  wanted  to  be  of  the  angels  and  play 
with  the  devils  also.  I  liked  saints — you  are  a 
saint,  Barbara — but  I  loved  all  sinners  too.  I 
hope  when — when  I  die,  that  the  little  bit  of  good 
that's  in  me  will  go  where  you  are.  For  the  rest 
of  me,  it  must  be  as  it  may." 

"Don't  speak  like  that,  Edward,  please,  dear. 
Yes,  you  have  been  wicked,  but  you  have  been 
punished,  oh,  those  long,  long  years!" 

"I've  lost  a  great  slice  of  life  by  both  the  stolen 
1 88 


BARBARA  GOLDING 

waters  and  the  rod,  but  I'm  going  to  reform  now, 
Barbara." 

' '  You  are  going  to  reform  ?  Oh ,  I  knew  you  would ! 
God  has  answered  my  prayer."  Her  eyes  lighted. 

He  did  not  speak  at  once,  for  his  ears,  keener 
than  hers,  were  listening  to  a  confused  sound  of 
voices  coming  from  the  shore.  At  length  he 
spoke  firmly:  "Yes,  I'm  going  to  reform,  but  it's 
on  one  condition." 

Her  eyes  mutely  asked  a  question,  and  he 
replied,  "That  you  marry  him,"  pointing  to  the 
inner  room,  "if  he  lives." 

"He  will  live,  but  I — I  cannot  tell  him,  Ed- 
ward," she  sadly  said. 

"He  knows." 

"He  knows!  Did  you  dare  to  tell  him?"  It 
was  the  lover,  not  the  sister,  who  spoke  then. 

"Yes.  And  he  knows  also  that  I'm  going  to 
reform — that  I'm  going  away." 

Her  face  was  hid  in  her  hand.  "And  I  kept  it 
from  him  five-and-twenty  years!  .  .  .  Where  are 
you  going,  Edward?" 

"To  the  Farewell  Islands,"  he  slowly  replied. 

And  she,  thinking  he  meant  some  island  group  in 
the  Pacific,  tearfully  inquired,  "Are  they  faraway?" 

"Yes,  very  far  away,  my  girl." 

' '  But  you  will  write  to  me  or  come  to  see  me  again — 
you  will  come  to  see  me  again,  sometimes,  Edward  ?" 

He  paused.  He  knew  not  at  first  what  to  reply, 
but  at  length  he  said,  with  a  strangely  determined 
flash  of  his  dark  eyes,  "Yes,  Barbara,  I  will  come 

189 


CUMNER'S   SON 

to  see  you  again — if  I  can."     He  stooped  and 
kissed  her.     "Good-bye,  Barbara." 

"But,  Edward,  must  you  go  to-night?" 

"Yes,  I  must  go  now.  They  are  waiting  for 
me.  Good-bye." 

She  would  have  stayed  him,  but  he  put  her 
gently  back,  and  she  said,  plaintively:  "God  keep 
you,  Edward.  Remember,  you  said  that  you 
would  come  again  to  me." 

"I  shall  remember,"  he  said,  quietly,  and  he 
was  gone. 

Standing  in  the  light  from  the  window  of  the 
sick  man's  room  he  wrote  a  line  in  Latin  on  a  slip 
of  paper  begging  of  Louis  Bachelor  the  mercy  of 
silence,  and  gave  it  to  Gongi,  who  whispered  that 
he  was  surrounded.  This  he  knew;  he  had  not 
studied  sounds  in  prison  through  the  best  years 
of  his  life  for  nothing.  He  asked  Gongi  to  give 
the  note  to  his  master  when  he  was  better,  and 
when  it  could  be  done  unseen  of  any  one.  Then 
he  turned  and  walked  coolly  toward  the  shore. 

A  few  minutes  later  he  lay  upon  a  heap  of 
magnolia  branches  breathing  his  life  away.  At 
the  same  moment  of  time  that  a  rough  but  kindly 
hand  closed  the  eyes  of  the  bushranger,  the 
woman  from  The  Angel's  Rest  and  Louis  Bachelor 
saw  the  pale  face  of  Roadmaster  peer  through  the 
bedroom  window  at  Barbara  Golding  sitting  in  a 
chair  asleep ;  and  she  started  and  said  through  her 
half-wakefulness,  looking  at  the  window,  "Where 
are  you  going,  Edward?" 

190 


THE   LONE  CORVETTE 

"  And  God  shall  turn  upon  them  violently,  and  toss 
tnem  like  a  ball  into  a  large  country." — Isaiah. 

1 '  POOR  Ted,  poor  Ted !  I'd  give  my  commission 
to  see  him  once  again." 

"I  believe  you  would,  Debney." 

"I  knew  him  to  the  last  button  of  his  nature, 
and  any  one  who  knew  him  well  could  never  think 
hardly  of  him.  There  were  five  of  us  brothers, 
and  we  all  worshipped  him.  He  could  run  rings 
round  us  in  everything — at  school,  with  sports,  in 
the  business  of  life,  in  love." 

Debney's  voice  fell  with  the  last  few  words,  and 
there  was  a  sorrowful  sort  of  smile  on  his  face.  His 
look  was  fastened  on  the  Farilone  Islands,  which 
lay  like  a  black,  half-closed  eyelid  across  the  disk 
of  the  huge  yellow  sun  as  it  sank  in  the  sky 
straight  out  from  the  Golden  Gate.  The  long 
wash  of  the  Pacific  was  in  their  ears  at  their  left, 
behind  them  was  the  Presidio,  from  which  they 
had  come  after  a  visit  to  the  officers,  and  before 
them  was  the  warm,  inviting  distance  of  waters, 
which  lead,  as  all  men  know,  to  the  Lotos  Isles. 
13  191 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Debney  sighed,  and  shook  his  head.  "He  was, 
by  nature,  the  ablest  man  I  ever  knew.  Every- 
thing in  the  world  interested  him." 

"There  lay  the  trouble,  perhaps." 

4 '  Nowhere  else.  All  his  will  was  with  the  whole- 
some thing,  but  his  brain,  his  imagination  were 
always  hunting.  He  was  the  true  adventurer  at 
the  start.  That  was  it,  Mostyn." 

' '  He  found  the  forbidden  thing  more  interesting 
than — the  other?" 

"Quite  so.  Unless  a  thing  was  really  interest- 
ing, stood  out,  as  it  were,  he  had  no  use  for  it — 
nor  for  man  nor  woman." 

"Lady  Folingsby,  for  instance." 

"Do  you  know,  Mostyn,  that  even  to-day, 
whenever  she  meets  me,  I  can  see  one  question  in 
her  eyes — 'Where  is  he?'  Always,  always  that. 
He  found  life  and  people  so  interesting  that  he 
couldn't  help  but  be  interesting  himself.  What- 
ever he  was,  I  never  knew  a  woman  speak  ill  of 
him.  .  .  .  Once  a  year  there  comes  to  me  a  letter 
from  an  artist  girl  in  Paris,  written  in  language 
that  gets  into  my  eyes.  There  is  always  the  one 
refrain:  'He  will  return  some  day.  Say  to  him 
that  I  do  not  forget.' ' 

"Whatever  his  faults,  he  was  too  big  to  be  any- 
thing but  kind  to  a  woman,  was  Ted." 

"I  remember  the  day  when  his  resignation  was 
so  promptly  accepted  by  the  Admiralty.  He 
walked  up  to  the  Admiral — Farquhar  it  was,  on 
the  Bolingbroke — and  said:  'Admiral,  if  I'd  been 

192 


THE  LONE  CORVETTE 

in  your  place  I'd  have  done  the  same.  I  ought  to 
resign,  and  I  have.  Yet  if  I  had  to  do  it  over 
again  I'd  be  the  same.  I  don't  repent.  I'm  out 
of  the  Navy  now,  and  it  doesn't  make  any  differ- 
ence what  I  say,  so  I'll  have  my  preachment  out. 
If  I  were  Admiral  Farquhar,  and  you  were  Edward 
Debney,  ex-commander,  I'd  say:  'Debney,  you're 
a  damned  good  fellow  and  a  damned  bad  officer.' 

"The  Admiral  liked  Edward,  in  spite  of  all, 
better  than  any  man  in  the  Squadron,  for  Ted's 
brains  were  worth  those  of  any  half-dozen  officers 
he  had.  He  simply  choked,  and  then,  before  the 
whole  ship,  dropped  both  hands  on  his  shoulders, 
and  said:  'Debney,  you're  a  damned  good  fellow 
and  a  damned  bad  officer,  and  I  wish  to  God  you 
were  a  damned  bad  fellow  and  a  damned  good 
officer — for  then  there  were  no  need  to  part.'  At 
that  they  parted.  But  as  Edward  was  leaving, 
the  Admiral  came  forward  again,  and  said,  'Where 
are  you  going,  Debney?'  'I'm  going  nowhere, 
sir,'  Ted  answered.  'I'm  being  tossed  into  strange 
waters — a  lone  corvette  of  no  squadron.'  He 
stopped,  smiled,  and  then  said — it  was  so  like  him, 
for,  with  all  his  wildness,  he  had  the  tastes  of  a 
student:  'You  remember  that  passage  in  Isaiah, 
sir — "And  God  shall  turn  upon  them  violently,  and 
toss  them  like  a  ball  into  a  large  country"  ?' 

"There  wasn't  a  man  but  had  a  kind  thought 
for  him  as  he  left,  and  there  was  rain  in  the  eyes 
of  more  than  one  A.B.  Well,  from  that  day  he 
disappeared,  and  no  one  has  seen  him  since.  God 


CUMNER'S  SON 

knows  where  he  is;  but  I  was  thinking,  as  I 
looked  out  there  to  the  setting  sun,  that  his  wild 
spirit  would  naturally  turn  to  the  South,  for 
civilized  places  had  no  charm  for  him." 

"I  never  knew  quite  why  he  had  to  leave  the 
Navy." 

"He  opened  fire  on  a  French  frigate  off  Tahiti 
which  was  boring  holes  in  an  opium  smuggler." 

Mostyn  laughed.  "Of  course;  and  how  like 
Ted  it  was — an  instinct  to  side  with  the  weak- 
est." 

"Yes,  coupled  with  the  fact  that  the  French- 
man's act  was  mere  brutality,  and  had  not 
sufficient  motive  or  justification.  So  Ted  pitched 
into  him." 

"Did  the  smuggler  fly  the  British  flag?" 

"No,  the  American;  and  it  was  only  the  inter- 
vention of  the  United  States  which  prevented 
serious  international  trouble.  Out  of  the  affair 
came  Ted  a  shipwreck." 

"Have  you  never  got  on  his  track?" 

"Once  I  thought  I  had  at  Singapore,  but  nothing 
came  of  it.  No  doubt  he  changed  his  name.  He 
never  asked  for,  never  got,  the  legacy  my  poor 
father  left  him." 

"What  was  it  made  you  think  you  had  come 
across  him  at  Singapore?" 

"Oh,  certain  significant  things." 

"What  was  he  doing?" 

Debney  looked  at  his  old  friend  for  a  moment 
debatingly,  then  said,  quietly:  "Slave-dealing,  and 

194 


THE  LONE  CORVETTE 

doing  it  successfully,  under  the  noses  of  men-of- 
war  of  all  nations." 

"But  you  decided  it  was  not  he,  after  all?" 

"I  doubted.  If  Ted  came  to  that,  he  would  do 
it  in  a  very  big  way.  It  would  appeal  to  him  on 
some  grand  scale,  with  real  danger  and,  say,  a 
few  scores  of  thousands  of  pounds  at  stake — not 
unless." 

Mostyn  lit  a  cigar,  and,  thrusting  his  hands  into 
his  pockets,  regarded  the  scene  before  him  with 
genial  meditation — the  creamy  wash  of  the  sea 
at  their  feet,  the  surface  of  the  water  like  corru- 
gated silver  stretching  to  the  farther  sky,  with 
that  long  lane  of  golden  light  crossing  it  to  the  sun, 
Alcatras,  Angel  Island,  Saucilito,  the  rocky  for- 
tresses, and  the  men-of-war  in  the  harbor,  on  one 
of  which  flew  the  British  ensign — the  Cormorant, 
commanded  by  Debney. 

"Poor  Ted!"  said  Mostyn  at  last;  "he  might 
have  been  anything." 

"Let  us  go  back  to  the  Cormorant,"  responded 
Debney,  sadly.  "And  see,  old  chap,  when  you 
get  back  to  England,  I  wish  you'd  visit  my  mother 
for  me,  for  I  shall  not  see  her  for  another  year,  and 
she's  always  anxious — always  since  Ted  left." 

Mostyn  grasped  the  other's  hand,  and  said: 
"It's  the  second  thing  I'll  do  on  landing,  my 
boy." 

Then  they  talked  of  other  things ;  but  as  they 
turned  at  the  Presidio  for  a  last  look  at  the  Golden 
Gate,  Mostyn  said,  musingly :  "  I  wonder  how  many 


CUMNER'S  SON 

millions'  worth  of  smuggled  opium  have  come  in 
that  open  door?" 

Debney  shrugged  a  shoulder  "Try  Nob  Hill, 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  the  Champs  Elysees.  What  does 
a  poor  man-o'-war's-man  know  of  such  things?" 

An  hour  later  they  were  aboard  the  Cormorant 
dining  with  a  number  of  men  asked  to  come  and 
say  good-bye  to  Mostyn,  who  was  starting  for 
England  the  second  day  following,  after  a  pleasant 
cruise  with  Debney. 

Meanwhile,  from  far  beyond  that  yellow  lane  of 
light  running  out  from  Golden  Gate  there  came  a 
vessel,  sailing  straight  for  harbor.  She  was  an 
old-fashioned  cruiser,  carrying  guns,  and  when 
she  passed  another  vessel  she  hoisted  the  British 
flag.  She  looked  like  a  half-obsolete  corvette, 
spruced  up,  made  modern  by  every  possible  device, 
and  all  her  appointments  were  shapely  and  in 
order.  She  was  clearly  a  British  man-of-war,  as 
shown  in  her  trim-dressed  sailors,  her  good  hand- 
ful of  marines ;  but  her  second  and  third  lieutenants 
seemed  little  like  Englishmen.  There  was  gun- 
drill  and  cutlass-drill  every  day,  and,  what  was 
also  singular,  there  was  boat-drill  twice  a  day,  so 
that  the  crew  of  this  man-of-war,  as  they  saw 
Golden  Gate  ahead  of  them,  were  perhaps  more 
expert  at  boat-drill  than  any  that  sailed.  They 
could  lower  and  raise  a  boat  with  a  wonderful 
expertness  in  a  bad  sea,  and  they  rowed  with 
clock-like  precision  and  machine-like  force. 

196 


THE  LONE  CORVETTE 

Their  general  discipline  did  credit  to  the  British 
Navy.  But  they  were  not  given  to  understand 
that  by  their  Commander,  Captain  Shewell,  who 
had  an  eye  like  a  spot  of  steel  and  a  tongue  like 
aloes  or  honey  as  the  mood  was  on  him.  It  was 
clear  that  he  took  his  position  seriously,  for  he  was 
as  rigid  and  exact  in  etiquette  as  an  admiral  of  the 
old  school,  and  his  eye  was  as  keen  for  his  officers 
as  for  his  men;  and  that  might  have  seemed 
strange  too,  if  one  had  seen  him  two  years  before 
commanding  a  schooner  with  a  roving  commission 
in  the  South  Seas.  Then  he  was  more  genial  of 
eye  and  less  professional  of  face.  Here  he  could 
never  be  mistaken  for  anything  else  than  the 
commander  of  a  man-of-war — it  was  in  his  legs, 
in  the  shoulder  he  set  to  the  wind,  in  the  tone  of 
his  orders,  in  his  austere  urbanity  to  his  officers. 
Yet  there  was  something  else  in  his  eye,  in  his  face, 
which  all  this  professionalism  could  not  hide,  even 
when  he  was  most  professional  —  some  elusive, 
subterranean  force  or  purpose. 

This  was  most  noticeable  when  he  was  shut 
away  from  the  others  in  his  cabin.  Then  his 
whole  body  seemed  to  change.  The  eye  became 
softer,  and  yet  full  of  a  sort  of  genial  devilry,  the 
body  had  a  careless  alertness  and  elasticity,  the 
whole  man  had  the  athletic  grace  of  a  wild  animal, 
and  his  face  had  a  hearty  sort  of  humor,  which  the 
slightly-lifting  lip,  in  its  insolent  disdain,  could 
not  greatly  modify.  He  certainly  seemed  well 
pleased  with  himself,  and  more  than  once,  as  he 

197 


CUMNER'S    SON 

sat  alone,  he  laughed  outright,  and  once  he  said 
aloud,  as  his  fingers  ran  up  and  down  a  schedule — • 
not  a  man-o'-war's  schedule — laughing  softly: 

"Poor  old  Farquhar,  if  he  could  see  me  now!" 
Then,  to  himself:  "Well,  as  I  told  him,  I  was 
violently  tossed  like  a  ball  into  the  large  country; 
and  I've  had  a  lot  of  adventure  and  sport.  But 
here's  something  more — the  biggest  game  ever 
played  between  nations  by  a  private  person — with 
fifty  thousand  pounds  as  the  end  thereof,  if  all 
goes  well  with  my  lone  corvette." 

The  next  evening,  just  before  dusk,  after  having 
idled  about  out  of  sight  of  the  signal  station  nearly 
all  day,  Captain  Shewell  entered  Golden  Gate  with 
the  Hornet — of  no  squadron.  But  the  officers  at 
the  signal  station  did  not  know  that,  and  simply 
telegraphed  to  the  harbor,  in  reply  to  the  signals 
from  the  corvette,  that  a  British  man-of-war  was 
coming.  She  came  leisurely  up  the  bay,  with 
Captain  Shewell  on  the  bridge.  He  gave  a  low 
whistle  as  he  saw  the  Cormorant  in  the  distance. 
He  knew  the  harbor  well,  and  saw  that  the  Cor- 
morant had  gone  to  a  new  anchorage,  not  the  same 
as  British  men-of-war  took  formerly.  He  drew 
away  to  the  old  anchorage — he  need  not  be  sup- 
posed to  know  that  a  change  was  expected;  be- 
sides— and  this  was  important  to  Captain  She- 
well — the  old  anchorage  was  near  the  docks;  and 
it  was  clear,  save  for  one  little  life-boat  and  a 
schooner  which  was  making  out  as  he  came  up. 

As  the  Hornet  came  to  anchor  the  Cormorant 
198 


THE  LONE  CORVETTE 

saluted  her,  and  she  replied  instantly.  Customs 
officers  who  were  watching  the  craft  from  the 
shore  or  from  their  boats  put  down  their  marine 
glasses  contentedly  when  they  saw  and  heard  the 
salutes.  But  two  went  out  to  the  Hornet,  were 
received  graciously  by  Captain  Shewell,  who,  over 
a  glass  of  wine  in  his  cabin — appropriately  hung 
with  pictures  of  Nelson  and  Collingwood — said 
that  he  was  proceeding  to  Alaska  to  rescue  a  crew 
shipwrecked  which  had  taken  refuge  on  a  barren 
island,  and  that  he  was  leaving  the  next  day  as 
soon  as  he  could  get  some  coal;  though  he  feared 
it  would  be  difficult  coaling  up  that  night.  He 
did  not  need  a  great  deal,  he  said — which  was, 
indeed,  the  case — but  he  did  need  some,  and  for 
the  Hornet's  safety  he  must  have  it.  After  this, 
with  cheerful  compliments,  and  the  perfunctory 
declaration  on  his  part  that  there  was  nothing 
dutiable  on  board,  the  officers  left  him,  greatly 
pleased  with  his  courtesy,  saluted  by  the  sailors 
standing  at  the  gangway  as  they  left  the  ship's 
side.  The  officers  did  not  notice  that  one  of  these 
sailors  winked  an  eye  at  another,  and  that  both 
then  grinned,  and  were  promptly  ordered  aft  by 
the  second  lieutenant. 

As  soon  as  it  was  very  dark  two  or  three  boats 
pushed  out  from  the  Hornet,  and  rowed  swiftly  to 
shore,  passing  a  Customs  boat  as  they  went, 
which  was  saluted  by  the  officers  in  command. 
After  this,  boats  kept  passing  backward  and  for- 
ward for  a  long  time  between  the  Hornet  and  the 

199 


CUMNER'S  SON 

shore,  which  was  natural,  seeing  that  a  first  night 
in  port  is  a  sort  of  holiday  for  officers  and  men. 
If  these  sailors  had  been  watched  closely,  how- 
ever, it  would  have  been  seen  that  they  visited 
but  few  saloons  on  shore,  and  drank  little,  and 
then  evidently  as  a  blind.  Close  watching  would 
also  have  discovered  the  fact  that  there  were  a 
few  people  on  shore  who  were  glad  to  see  the  safe 
arrival  of  the  Hornet,  and  who,  about  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning,  almost  fell  on  the  neck  of  Captain 
Shewell  as  they  bade  him  good-bye.  Then,  for 
the  rest  of  the  night,  coal  was  carried  out  to  the 
Hornet  in  boats  and  barges. 

By  daybreak  her  coal  was  aboard,  then  came 
cleaning  up,  and  preparations  to  depart.  Captain 
Shewell's  eye  was  now  much  on  the  Cormorant. 
He  had  escaped  one  danger,  he  had  landed  half  a 
million  dollars  worth  of  opium  in  the  night,  under 
the  very  nose  of  the  law,  and  while  Customs  boats 
were  patrolling  the  bay;  but  there  was  another 
danger — the  inquisitiveness  of  the  Cormorant.  It 
was  etiquette  for  him  to  call  upon  the  captain  of 
the  Cormorant,  and  he  ought  to  have  done  so  the 
evening  before,  but  he  had  not  dared  to  run  the 
risk,  nor  could  he  venture  this  morning.  And 
yet  if  the  Cormorant  discovered  that  the  Hornet 
was  not  a  British  man-of-war,  but  a  bold  and 
splendid  imposture,  made  possible  by  a  daring 
ex-officer  of  the  British  Navy,  she  might  open  fire, 
and  he  could  make  but  a  sorry  fight,  for  he  was 
equipped  for  show  rather  than  for  deadly  action. 

200 


THE  LONE  CORVETTE 

He  had  got  this  ex-British  man-of-war  two  years 
before,  purchased  in  Brazil  by  two  adventurous 
spirits  in  San  Francisco,  had  selected  his  crew 
carefully,  many  of  them  deserters  from  the  British 
Navy,  drilled  them,  and  at  last  made  this  bold 
venture  under  the  teeth  of  a  fortress,  and  at  the 
mouth  of  a  warship's  guns. 

Just  as  he  was  lifting  anchor  to  get  away,  he 
saw  a  boat  shoot  out  from  the  side  of  the  Cor- 
morant. Captain  Debney,  indignant  at  the  lack 
of  etiquette,  and  a  little  suspicious  also  now — for 
there  was  no  Hornet  in  the  Pacific  Squadron, 
though  there  was  a  Hornet,  he  knew,  in  the  China 
Squadron — was  coming  to  visit  the  discourteous 
commander. 

He  was  received  with  the  usual  formalities, 
and  was  greeted  at  once  by  Captain  Shewell.  As 
the  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  both  started,  but 
Captain  Debney  was  most  shaken.  He  turned 
white,  and  put  out  his  hand  to  the  bulwark  to 
steady  himself.  But  Captain  Shewell  held  the 
hand  that  had  been  put  out ;  shook  it,  pressed  it. 
He  tried  to  urge  Captain  Debney  forward,  but  the 
other  drew  back  to  the  gangway. 

"Pull  yourself  together,  Dick,  or  there'll  be  a 
mess,"  said  Shewell,  softly. 

"My  God,  how  could  you  do  it?"  replied  his 
brother,  aghast. 

Meanwhile  the  anchor  had  been  raised,  and  the 
Hornet  was  moving  toward  the  harbor  mouth. 

"You  have  ruined  us  both,"  said  Richard  Debney. 

201 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"Neither,  Dick!  I'll  save  your  bacon."  He 
made  a  sign,  the  gangway  was  closed,  he  gave  the 
word  for  full  steam  ahead,  and  the  Hornet  began 
to  race  through  the  water  before  Captain  Debney 
guessed  his  purpose. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  do?"  he  asked,  sternly, 
as  he  saw  his  own  gig  falling  astern. 

"To  make  it  hard  for  you  to  blow  me  to  pieces. 
You've  got  to  do  it,  of  course,  if  you  can,  but  I 
must  get  a  start." 

"How  far  do  you  intend  carrying  me?" 

"To  the  Farilones,  perhaps." 

Richard  Debney 's  face  had  a  sick  look.  "Take 
me  to  your  cabin,"  he  whispered. 

What  was  said  behind  the  closed  door  no  man 
in  this  world  knows,  and  it  is  well  not  to  listen  too 
closely  to  those  who  part,  knowing  that  they  will 
never  meet  again.  They  had  been  children  in  the 
one  mother's  arms;  there  was  nothing  in  com- 
mon between  them  now  except  that  ancient 
love. 

Nearing  the  Farilones,  Captain  Debney  was  put 
off  in  an  open  boat.  Standing  there  alone,  he  was 
once  more  a  naval  officer,  and  he  called  out,  stern- 
ly: "Sir,  I  hope  to  sink  you  and  your  smuggling 
craft  within  four-and-twenty  hours!" 

Captain  Shewell  spoke  no  word,  but  saluted 
deliberately,  and  watched  his  brother's  boat  re- 
cede, till  it  was  a  speck  upon  the  sea,  as  it  moved 
toward  Golden  Gate. 

"Good  old  Dick!"  he  said,  at  last,  as  he  turned 
202 


THE  LONE  CORVETTE 

away  toward  the  bridge.  "And  he'll  do  it,  if  he 
can!" 

But  he  never  did,  for  as  the  Cormorant  cleared 
the  harbor  that  evening  there  came  an  accident  to 
her  machinery,  and  with  two  days'  start  the  Hor- 
net was  on  her  way  to  be  sold  again  to  a  South 
American  Republic. 

And  Edward  Debney,  once  her  captain  ?  What 
does  it  matter? 


A  SABLE   SPARTAN 

LADY  TYNEMOUTH  was  interested;  his  Excel- 
lency was  amused.  The  interest  was  real,  the 
amusement  was  not  ironical.  Blithelygo,  seeing 
that  he  had  at  least  excited  the  attention  of  the 
luncheon  party,  said,  half  -  apologetically :  "Of 
course,  my  experience  is  small ;  but  in  many  parts 
of  the  world  I  have  been  surprised  to  see  how  uni- 
form revolutionizes  the  savage.  Put  him  into 
Convention  (that  is,  clothes),  give  him  Responsi- 
bility (that  is,  a  chance  to  exercise  vanity  and 
power),  and  you  make  him  a  Britisher — a  good 
citizen  to  all  intents  and  purposes." 

Blithelygo  was  a  clever  fellow  in  his  way.  He 
had  a  decided  instinct  for  military  matters,  and 
for  good  cigars  and  pretty  women.  Yet  he  would 
rather  give  up  both  than  an  idea  which  had  got 
firmly  fixed  in  his  mind.  He  was  very  deferential 
in  his  remarks,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  quite 
willing  to  go  into  a  minority  which  might  not  in- 
clude pretty  Miss  Angel  who  sat  beside  him,  if  he 
was  not  met  by  conclusive  good  arguments. 

In  the  slight  pause  which  followed  his  rather 
long  speech,  his  Excellency  passed  the  champagne 

204 


A  SABLE  SPARTAN 

cup,  and  Lady  Tynemouth  said:  "But  I  suppose 
it  depends  somewhat  on  the  race,  doesn't  it,  Mr. 
Travers?  I  am  afraid  mere  uniforming  would 
scarcely  work  successfully — among  the  Bengalese, 
for  instance." 

"A  wretched  crew,"  said  Major  Warham; 
"awful  liars,  awful  scoundrels — need  kicking  every 
morning." 

"Of  course,"  said  Blithelygo,  "there  must  be 
some  consideration  of  race.  But  look  at  the 
Indian  Mutiny.  Though  there  was  revolt,  look 
at  those  who  'fought  with  us  faithful  and  few'; 
look  at  the  fidelity  of  the  majority  of  the  native 
servants.  Look  at  the  native  mounted  police  in 
Australia ;  at  the  Sikhs  in  the  Settlements  and  the 
Native  States ;  at  the  Indian  scouts  of  the  United 
States  and  Canada ;  and  look  at  these  very  Indian 
troops  at  your  door,  your  Excellency!  I  think 
my  principle  holds  good:  give  uniform,  give  re- 
sponsibility—  under  European  surveillance,  of 
course — get  British  civilization." 

His  Excellency's  eyes  had  been  wandering  out 
of  the  window,  over  the  white  wall  and  into  the 
town  where  Arabia,  India,  Africa,  the  Islands  of 
the  South  and  Palestine  were  blended  in  a  quiver- 
ing radiant  panorama.  Then  they  rose  until  they 
fell  upon  Jebel  Shamsan,  in  its  intoxicating  red 
and  opal  far  away,  and  upon  the  frowning  and 
mighty  rampart  that  makes  Aden  one  of  the  most 
impregnable  stations  of  the  Empire.  The  amuse- 
ment in  his  eyes  had  died  away ;  and  as  he  dipped 

205 


CUMNER'S  SON 

his  fingers  in  the  water  at  his  side  and  motioned 
for  a  quickening  of  the  punkas,  he  said:  "There 
is  force  in  what  you  say.  It  would  be  an  un- 
pleasant lookout  for  us  here  and  in  many  parts 
of  the  world  if  we  could  not  place  reliance  on  the 
effect  of  uniform;  but" — and  the  amused  look 
came  again  to  his  eyes — "we  somehow  get  dulled 
to  the  virtues  of  Indian  troops  and  Somauli  police- 
men. We  can't  get  perspective,  you  see." 

Blithelygo  good-naturedly  joined  in  the  laugh 
that  went  round  the  table;  for  nearly  all  there 
had  personal  experience  of  "uniformed  savages." 
As  the  ladies  rose  Miss  Angel  said  naively  to 
Blithelygo :  ' '  You  ought  to  spend  a  month  in  Aden, 
Mr.  Blithelygo.  Don't  go  by  the  next  boat,  then 
you  can  study  uniforms  here." 

We  settled  down  to  our  cigars.  Major  Warham 
was  an  officer  from  Bombay.  He  had  lived  in 
India  for  twenty  years:  long  enough  to  be 
cynical  of  justice  at  the  Horse  Guards  or  at  the 
India  Office:  to  become,  in  fact,  bitter  against 
London,  S.W.,  altogether.  It  was  he  that  pro- 
posed a  walk  through  the  town. 

The  city  lay  sleepy  and  listless  beneath  a  proud 
and  distant  sky  of  changeless  blue.  Idly  sat  the 
Arabs  on  the  benches  outside  the  low-roofed  coffee- 
houses ;  lazily  worked  the  makers  of  ornaments  in 
the  bazaars;  yawningly  pounded  the  tinkers; 
greedily  ate  the  children ;  the  city  was  cloyed  with 
ease.  Warham,  Blithelygo,  and  myself  sat  in  the 
evening  sun  surrounded  by  gold-and-scarlet  be- 

206 


A  SABLE  SPARTAN 

dizened  gentry  of  the  desert,  and  drank  strong 
coffee  and  smoked  until  we  too  were  satisfied,  if 
not  surfeited;  animals  like  the  rest.  Silence  fell 
on  us.  This  was  a  new  life  to  two  of  us;  to  War- 
ham  it  was  familiar,  therefore  comfortable  and 
soporific.  I  leaned  back  and  languidly  scanned 
the  scene;  eyes  half-shut,  senses  half-awake.  An 
Arab  sheik  passed  swiftly  with  his  curtained 
harem;  and  then  went  filing  by  in  orderly  and 
bright  array  a  number  of  Mahommedans,  the  first 
of  them  bearing,  on  a  cushion  of  red  velvet  and 
covered  with  a  cloth  of  scarlet  and  gold,  a  dead 
child  to  burial.  Down  from  the  colossal  tanks 
built  in  the  mountain  gorges  that  were  old  when 
Mahomet  was  young,  there  came  donkeys  bearing 
great  leathern  bottles  such  as  the  Israelites  carried 
in  their  forty  years'  sojourning.  A  long  line  of 
swaying  camels  passed  dustily  to  the  desert  that 
burns  even  into  this  city  of  Aden,  built  on  a 
volcano;  groups  of  Somaulis,  lithe  and  brawny, 
moved  chattering  here  and  there;  and  a  handful 
of  wandering  horsemen,  with  spears  and  snowy 
garments,  were  being  swallowed  up  in  the  moun- 
tain denies. 

The  day  had  been  long,  the  coffee  and  cigarettes 
had  been  heavy,  and  we  dozed  away  in  the  sensu- 
ous atmosphere.  Then  there  came,  as  if  in  a 
dream,  a  harsh  and  far-off  murmur  of  voices.  It 
grew  from  a  murmur  to  a  sharp  cry,  and  from  a 
sharp  cry  to  a  roar  of  rage.  In  a  moment  we  were 
on  our  feet,  and  dashing  away  toward  the  sound. 
14  207 


CUMNER'S  SON 

The  sight  that  greeted  us  was  a  strange  one,  and 
horribly  picturesque.  In  front  of  a  low-roofed 
house  of  stone  was  a  crowd  of  Mahommedans 
fierce  with  anger  and  loud  in  imprecation.  Knives 
were  flashing;  murder  was  afoot.  There  stood, 
with  his  back  to  the  door  of  the  house,  a  Somauli 
policeman,  defending  himself  against  this  raging 
little  mob.  Not  defending  himself  alone.  Within 
the  house  he  had  thrust  a  wretched  Jew,  who  had 
defiled  a  Mahommedan  mosque;  and  he  was  here 
protecting  him  against  these  nervous  champions 
of  the  faith. 

Once,  twice,  thrice,  they  reached  him;  but  he 
fought  on  with  his  unwounded  arm.  We  were 
unarmed  and  helpless;  no  Somaulis  were  near. 
Death  glittered  in  these  white  blades.  But  must 
this  Spartan  die? 

Now  there  was  another  cry,  a  British  cheer, 
a  gleam  of  blue  and  red,  a  glint  of  steel  rounding 
the  corner  at  our  left,  and  the  Mahommedans 
broke  away,  with  a  parting  lunge  at  the  Somauli. 
British  soldiers  took  the  place  of  the  bloodthirsty 
mob. 

Danger  over,  the  Somauli  sank  down  on  the 
threshold  fainting  from  loss  of  blood.  As  we 
looked  at  him  gashed  all  over,  but  not  mortally 
wounded,  Blithelygo  said,  with  glowing  triumph: 
"British,  British,  you  see!" 

At  that  moment  the  door  of  the  house  opened, 
and  out  crawled  to  the  feet  of  the  officer  in  com- 
mand the  miserable  Israelite  with  his  red  hemmed 

208 


A  SABLE  SPARTAN 

skirt  and  greasy  face.  For  this  cowardly  creat- 
ure the  Somauli  policeman  had  perilled  his  life. 
Sublime!  How  could  we  help  thinking  of  the 
talk  at  his  Excellency's  table  ? 

Suddenly  the  Somauli  started  up  and  looked 
round  anxiously.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  Jew.  His 
countenance  grew  peaceful.  He  sank  back  again 
into  the  arms  of  the  surgeon,  and  said,  pointing 
to  the  son  of  Abraham:  "He  owe  me  for  a 
donkey." 

Major  Warham,  looking  at  Blithelygo,  said,  with 
a  chilled  kind  of  lustre  to  his  voice:  "British, 
British,  don't  you  know!" 


A  VULGAR   FRACTION 

SOMETIMES  when,  like  Mirza,  I  retire  to  my  little 
Hill  of  Bagdad  for  meditation,  there  comes  before 
me  the  bright  picture  of  Hawaii  with  its  coral- 
bulwarked  islands  and  the  memory  of  an  idle 
sojourn  on  their  shores.  I  remember  the  rainbow- 
colored  harbor  of  Honolulu  Hilo,  the  simply  joy- 
ous Arcadie  at  the  foot  of  Mauna  Loa,  and  Mauna 
Kea  which  lifted  violet  shoulders  to  the  morning, 
the  groves  of  cocoa-palms  and  tamarinds,  the 
waterfalls  dropping  over  sheer  precipices  a  thou- 
sand feet  into  the  ocean,  the  green  embrasures 
where  the  mango,  the  guava,  and  the  lovi  lovi 
grow,  and  where  the  hybiscus  lifts  red  hands  to 
the  light.  I  call  to  mind  the  luau  where  Kalakua, 
the  King,  presided  over  the  dispensation  of 
stewed  puppy,  lifted  to  one's  lips  by  brown  but 
fair  fingers,  of  live  shrimps,  of  poi  and  taro  and 
balls  of  boiled  seaweed  stuffed  with  Heaven  knows 
what;  and  to  crown  all,  or  to  drown  all,  the 
insinuating  liquor  kava,  followed  when  the  festival 
was  done  by  the  sensuous  but  fascinating  hula  hula, 
danced  by  maidens  of  varying  loveliness.  Of 
these  Van  Blaricom,  the  American,  said  "they'd 

210 


A  VULGAR  FRACTION 

capture  Chicago  in  a  week  with  that  racket,"  and 
he  showed  Blithelygo  his  calculations  as  to 
profits. 

The  moments  that  we  enjoyed  the  most,  how- 
ever, were  those  that  came  when  feast  and  sere- 
nade were  over,  when  Hawaii  Ponoi,  the  National 
Anthem,  was  sung,  and  we  lay  upon  the  sands 
and  watched  the  long  white  coverlet  of  foam  fold- 
ing toward  the  shore,  and  saw  visions  and  dreamed 
dreams.  But  at  times  we  also  breathed  a  prayer 
— a  prayer  that  somebody  or  something  would 
come  and  carry  off  Van  Blaricom,  whose  satire, 
born  and  nurtured  in  Chicago,  was  ever  turned 
against  Hawaii  and  all  that  therein  was. 

There  are  times  wrhen  I  think  I  had  a  taste  of 
Paradise  in  Hawaii — but  a  Paradise  not  without 
a  satanic  intruder  in  the  shape  of  that  person 
from  Illinois.  Nothing  escaped  his  scorn.  One 
day  we  saw  from  Diamond  Head  three  water- 
spouts careering  to  the  south,  a  splendid  procession 
of  the  powers  of  the  air.  He  straightway  said  to 
Kalakua  that  "a  Michigan  cyclone  had  more  git- 
up-and-git  about  it  than  them  three  black  cats 
with  their  tails  in  the  water."  He  spent  hours  in 
thinking  out  rudely  caustic  things  to  repeat  about 
this  little  kingdom.  He  said  that  the  Govern- 
ment was  a  Corliss  -  engine  running  a  sewing- 
machine.  He  used  to  ask  the  Commander  of  the 
Forces  when  the  Household  Cavalry  were  going 
into  summer  camp — they  were  twelve.  The  only 
thing  that  appeared  to  impress  him  seriously  was 

211 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Molokai,  the  desolate  island  where  the  lepers 
made  their  cheerless  prison-home.  But  the  rea- 
son for  his  gravity  appeared  when  he  said  to 
Blithelygo  and  myself,  "There'd  be  a  fortune  in 
that  menagerie  if  it  was  anchored  in  Lake  Michi- 
gan." On  that  occasion  he  was  answered  in 
strong  terms.  It  was  the  only  time  I  ever  heard 
Blithelygo  use  profanity.  But  the  American 
merely  dusted  his  patent  -  leather  shoes  with  a 
gay  silk  kerchief,  adjusted  his  clothes  on  his  five- 
foot  frame  as  he  stood  up;  and  said:  "Say,  you 
ought  to  hear  my  partner  in  Chicago  when  he  lets 
out.  He's  an  artist!" 

This  man  from  the  West  was  evidently  fore- 
ordained to  play  a  part  in  the  destinies  of  Blithelygo 
and  myself,  for  during  two  years  of  travel  he  con- 
tinuously crossed  our  path.  His  only  becoming 
quality  was  his  ample  extravagance.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  bountiful  impetus  he  gave  to  the  com- 
merce of  Honolulu,  and  the  fact  that  he  talked  of 
buying  up  a  portion  of  one  of  the  islands  for 
sugar-planting,  that  induced  the  King  to  be  gra- 
cious to  him.  However  that  might  be,  when 
Blithelygo  and  I  joined  his  Majesty  at  Hilo  to 
visit  the  extinct  volcano  of  Kilauea,  there  was 
the  American  coolly  puffing  his  cigar  and  quizzi- 
cally feeling  the  limbs  and  prodding  the  ribs  of 
the  one  individual  soldier  who  composed  the 
King's  body-guard.  He  was  not  interested  in  our 
arrival  further  than  to  give  us  a  nod.  In  a  pause 
that  followed  our  greetings,  he  said  to  his  Ma- 

212 


A  VULGAR  FRACTION 

jesty,  while  jerking  his  thumb  toward  the  soldier, 
"King,  how  many  of  'em  have  you  got  in  your 
army?" 

His  Majesty  blandly  but  with  dignity  turned  to 
his  aide-de-camp  and  raised  his  eyebrows  in- 
quiringly. The  aide-de-camp  answered,  "Sixty." 

"Then  we've  got  -gVth  of  the  standing  army 
with  us,  eh?"  drawled  Van  Blaricom. 

The  aide-de-camp  bowed  affirmatively.  The 
King  was  scanning  Mauna  Loa.  The  American 
winked  at  us.  The  King  did  not  see  the  wink, 
but  he  had  caught  a  tone  in  the  voice  of  the  in- 
vader, which  brought,  as  I  thought,  a  slight  flush 
to  his  swarthy  cheek.  The  soldier — his  name  was 
Lilikalu  —  looked  from  his  king  to  the  critic  of 
his  king's  kingdom  and  standing  army,  and  there 
was  a  glow  beneath  his  long  eyelashes  which  sug- 
gested that  three-quarters  of  a  century  of  civiliza- 
tion had  not  quite  drawn  the  old  savage  spirit 
from  the  descendants  of  Lailai,  the  Hawaiian 
Eve. 

During  the  journey  up  the  Forty-Mile  Track  to 
Kilauea,  the  American  enveloped  ^th  of  his 
Majesty's  standing  army  with  his  Michigan  Avenue 
and  peanut  -  stand  wit,  and  not  always,  it  was 
observed,  out  of  the  hearing  of  the  King,  who 
nevertheless  preserved  a  marked  unconsciousness. 
Majesty  was  at  a  premium  with  two  of  us  on  that 
journey.  Only  once  was  the  Chicagonian's  wit 
not  stupid  as  well  as  offensive.  It  chanced  thus. 
The  afternoon  in  which  we  reached  the  volcano 

213 


CUMNER'S  SON 

was  suffocatingly  hot,  and  the  King's  body-guard 
had  discarded  all  clothing — brief  when  complete 
— save  what  would  not  count  in  any  handicap. 
He  was  therefore  at  peace,  while  the  rest  of  us, 
Royalty  included,  were  inwardly  thinking  that 
after  this  the  orthodox  future  of  the  wicked  would 
have  no  terrors.  At  a  moment  when  the  body- 
guard appeared  to  be  most  ostentatious  in  his 
freedom  from  clothing  the  American  said  to  his 
Majesty,  "King,  do  you  know  what  ^th  of  your 
standing  army  is?" 

The  reply  was  a  low  and  frigid  "No." 

"It's  a  vulgar  fraction." 

There  were  seven  of  us  walking  on  the  crater  of 
the  volcano:  great  banks  of  sulphur  on  the  right, 
dark  glaciers  of  lava  on  the  left,  high  walls  of 
scoria  and  volcanic  crust  enveloping  us  all  about. 
We  were  four  thousand  feet  above  the  level  of 
the  sea.  We  were  standing  at  the  door  of  the 
House  of  Pele,  the  Goddess  of  Fire.  We  knocked, 
but  she  would  not  open.  The  flames  were  gone 
from  her  hearthstone,  her  smoke  was  gorging  the 
throat  of  the  suffering  earth. 

"Say,  she  was  awful  sick  while  she  was  about 
it,"  said  the  American,  as  he  stumbled  over  the 
belched  masses  of  lava. 

That  was  one  day.  But  two  days  after  we 
stood  at  Pele's  threshold  again.  Now  red  scoria 
and  pumice  and  sulphur  boiled  and  rolled  where 
the  hard  lava  had  frayed  our  boots.  Within 

214 


A  VULGAR  FRACTION 

thirty-six  hours  Kilauea  has  sprung  from  its  flame- 
less  sleep  into  sulphurous  life  and  red  roaring 
grandeur.  Though  Pele  came  but  slowly,  she 
came;  and  a  lake  of  fire  beat  at  the  lofty  sides 
of  the  volcanic  cup.  The  ruby  spray  flashed  up 
to  the  sky,  and  geysers  of  flame  hurled  long  lances 
at  the  moon. 

"King,"  said  the  American,  "why  don't  you 
turn  it  into  an  axe-factory?" 

At  last  the  time  came  when  we  must  leave  this 
scene  of  marvel  and  terror,  and  we  retired  reluc- 
tantly. There  were  two  ways  by  which  we  might 
return  to  the  bridle-path  that  led  down  the  moun- 
tain. The  American  desired  to  take  the  one  by 
which  we  had  not  come;  the  rest  of  us,  tired  out, 
preferred  to  go  as  we  came — the  shortest  way. 
A  compromise  was  made  by  his  Majesty  sending 
-gVth  of  the  standing  army  with  the  American, 
who  gayly  said  he  would  join  us,  "horse,  foot,  and 
cavalry,"  in  the  bridle-path.  We  reached  the 
meeting-point  first,  but  as  we  looked  back  we  saw 
with  horror  that  two  streams  of  fire  were  flowing 
down  the  mountain-side.  We  were  to  the  left  of 
them  both,  and  safe;  but  between  them,  and  ap- 
proaching us,  were  Van  Blaricom  and  the  native 
soldier.  The  two  men  saw  their  danger,  and 
pushed  swiftly  down  the  mountain-side  and  tow- 
ard us,  but  more  swiftly  still  these  narrow  snake- 
like  streams  came  on. 

Presently  the  streams  veered  toward  each  other 
and  joined.  The  two  men  were  on  an  island 

215 


CUMNER'S  SON 

with  a  shore  on  fire.  There  was  one  hope — the 
shore  was  narrow  yet.  But  in  running  the  Amer- 
ican fell,  spraining  his  ankle  badly.  We  were 
speechless,  but  the  King's  lips  parted  with  a 
moan,  as  he  said  "Lilikalu  can  jump  the  stream, 
but  the  other — !" 

They  were  now  at  the  margin  of  that  gleaming 
shore,  the  American  wringing  his  hands.  It  was 
clear  to  him  that  unless  a  miracle  happened  he 
would  see  his  beloved  Chicago  no  more;  for  the 
stream  behind  them  was  rapidly  widening. 

I  think  I  see  that  -foth  of  his  Majesty's  infantry 
as  he  looked  down  upon  the  slight  and  cowering 
form  of  the  American.  His  moment  of  vengeance 
had  come.  A  second  passed,  marked  by  the 
splashing  roar  of  the  waves  in  the  hill  above  us, 
and  then  the  soldier — naked,  all  save  the  boots 
he  wore — seized  the  other  in  his  arms,  stepped 
back  a  few  paces,  and  then  ran  forward  and 
leaped  across  the  barrier  of  flame.  Not  quite 
across!  One  foot  and  ankle  sank  into  the  molten 
mass  as,  with  a  shiver  of  agony,  he  let  the  Amer- 
ican fall  on  the  safe  ground.  An  instant  later 
and  he  lay  at  our  feet,  helpless  and  maimed  for 
many  a  day ;  and  the  standing  army  of  the  King 
was  deprived  of  ^th  of  its  strength. 


HOW  PANGO  WANGO  WAS  ANNEXED 

BLITHELYGO  and  I  were  at  Levuka,  Fiji,  lan- 
guidly waiting  for  some  "trader"  or  mail-steamer 
to  carry  us  away  anywhere.  Just  when  we  were 
bored  beyond  endurance  and  when  cigars  were 
running  low,  a  Fijian  came  to  us  and  said:  "That 
fellow,  white  fellow,  all  a-same  a-you,  long  a-shore. 
Pleni  sail.  Pleni  Melican  flag." 

We  went  to  the  beach,  and  there  was  Jude 
Van  Blaricom,  our  American.  We  had  left  him 
in  New  Zealand  at  the  Pink  Terraces,  bidding  him 
an  eternal  farewell.  We  wished  it  so.  But  we 
had  met  him  afterward  at  Norfolk  Island,  and 
again  at  Sydney,  and  we  knew  now  that  we 
should  never  cease  to  meet  him  during  our  sojourn 
on  this  earth. 

An  hour  later  we  were  on  board  his  yacht, 
Wilderness,  being  introduced  to  MacGregor,  the 
captain,  to  Mr.  Dagmar  Caramel,  C.M.G.,  his  guest, 
and  to  some  freshly  made  American  cocktails. 
Then  we  were  shown  over  the  Wilderness.  She 
looked  as  if  she  had  been  in  the  hands  of  a  Uni- 
versal Provider.  Evidently  the  American  had 
no  intention  of  roughing  it.  His  toilet  requisites 

217 


CUMNER'S  SON 

were  a  dream.  From  the  dazzling  completeness 
of  the  snug  saloon  we  were  taken  aft  to  see  two 
coops  filled  with  fowls.  "Say,"  said  the  Ameri- 
can, "how's  that  for  fresh  meat?"  Though  a 
little  ashamed  of  it,  we  then  and  there  accepted 
the  Chicagonian's  invitation  to  take  a  cruise  with 
him  in  the  South  Pacific. 

For  days  the  cruise  was  pleasant  enough,  and 
then  things  began  to  drag.  Fortunately  there 
came  a  new  interest  in  the  daily  routine.  One  day 
Van  Blaricom  was  seen  standing  with  the  cook 
before  the  fowl -coops  deeply  interested ;  and  soon 
after  he  had  triumphantly  arranged  what  he 
called  "The  Coliseum."  This  was  an  enclosure 
of  canvas  chiefly,  where  we  had  cock-fights  daily. 
The  gladiators  were  always  ready  for  the  arena. 
One  was  called  U.  S.,  after  Gen.  U.  S.  Grant, 
and  the  other  Bob  Lee,  after  Gen.  Robert 
Lee. 

"Go  it,  U.  S.  Lift  your  skewers,  you  bobtail. 
Give  it  to  him,  you've  got  him  in  Anderson ville, 
U.  S."  Thus,  day  by  day,  were  the  warriors 
encouraged  by  Van  Blaricom. 

There  is  nothing  very  elegant  or  interesting  in 
the  record  so  far,  but  it  all  has  to  do  with  the 
annexation  of  Pango  Wango,  and,  as  Blithelygo 
long  afterward  remarked,  it  shows  how  nations 
sometimes  acquire  territory.  Yes,  this  Coliseum 
of  ours  had  as  much  to  do  with  the  annexation 
as  had  the  American's  toilet  requisites — his  hair- 
oil  and  perfume  bottles.  In  the  South  Pacific, 

218 


HOW  PANGO  WANGO  WAS  ANNEXED 

a  thousand  miles  from  land,  Van  Blaricom  was 
redolent  of  new-mown  hay  and  heliotrope. 

It  was  tropically  hot.  We  were  in  the  very 
middle  of  the  hurricane  season.  The  air  had  no 
nerve.  Even  the  gladiators  were  relaxing  their 
ardor ;  and  soon  the  arena  was  cleared  altogether, 
for  we  were  in  the  midst  of  a  hurricane.  It  was 
a  desperate  time,  but  just  when  it  seemed  most 
desperate  the  wheel  of  doom  turned  backward 
and  we  were  saved.  The  hurricane  found  us 
fretful  with  life  by  reason  of  the  heat,  it  left  us 
thankful  for  being  let  to  live  at  all;  though  the 
Wilderness  appeared  little  better  than  a  drifting 
wreck.  Our  commissariat  was  gone,  or  almost 
gone,  we  hadn't  any  masts  or  sails  to  speak  of, 
and  the  cook  informed  us  that  we  had  but  a  few 
gallons  of  fresh  water  left;  yet,  strange  to  say, 
the  gladiators  remained  to  us.  When  the  peril 
was  over  it  surprised  me  to  remember  that  Van 
Blaricom  had  been  comparatively  cool  through 
it  all;  for  I  had  still  before  me  a  certain  scene  at 
the  volcano  of  Kilauea.  I  was  to  be  still  more 
surprised. 

We  were  by  no  means  out  of  danger.  Mac- 
Gregor  did  not  know  where  we  were;  the  fresh 
water  was  vanishing  rapidly,  and  our  patch  of 
sail  was  hardly  enough  to  warrant  a  breeze  taking 
any  interest  in  it.  We  had  been  saved  from 
immediate  destruction,  but  it  certainly  seemed 
like  exchanging  Tophet  for  a  slow  fire.  When  the 
heat  was  greatest  and  the  spiritual  gloom  thickest 

219 


CUMNER'S  SON 

the  American  threw  out  the  sand-bags,  as  it  were, 
and  hope  mounted  again. 

"Say,  MacGregor,"  he  said,  "run  up  the 
American  flag.  There's  luck  in  the  old  bandana." 

This  being  done,  he  added:  "Bring  along  the 
cigars;  we'll  have  out  U.  S.  and  Bob  Lee  in  the 
saloon." 

Our  Coliseum  was  again  open  to  the  public  at 
two  shillings  a  head.  That  had  been  the  price 
from  the  beginning.  The  American  was  very 
businesslike  in  the  matter,  but  this  admission  fee 
was  our  only  contribution  to  the  expenses  of 
that  cruise.  Sport  could  only  allay,  it  could  not 
banish  our  sufferings.  We  became  as  haggard 
and  woe-begone  a  lot  as  ever  ate  provisions  im- 
pregnated with  salt;  we  turned  wistfully  from 
claret  to  a  teaspoonful  of  water,  and  had  tongues 
like  pieces  of  blotting-paper.  One  morning  we 
were  sitting  at  breakfast  when  we  heard  a  cock- 
crow, then  another  and  another.  MacGregor 
sprang  to  his  feet,  crying,  "Land!"  In  a  moment 
we  were  on  deck.  There  was  no  land  to  be  seen, 
but  MacGregor  maintained  that  a  cock  was  a 
better  lookout  than  a  human  being  any  time, 
and  in  this  case  he  was  right.  In  a  few  hours 
we  did  sight  land. 

Slowly  we  came  nearer  to  the  island.  Mac- 
Gregor was  not  at  all  sure  where  it  was,  but  guessed 
it  might  be  one  of  the  Solomon  Islands.  When 
within  a  few  miles  of  it  Blithelygo  unfeelingly 
remarked  that  its  population  might  be  cannibal- 

22Q 


HOW  PANGO  WANGO  WAS  ANNEXED 

istic.  MacGregor  said  it  was  very  likely;  but 
we'd  have  to  be  fattened  first,  and  that  would 
give  us  time  to  turn  round.  The  American  said 
that  the  Stars  and  Stripes  and  the  Coliseum  had 
brought  us  luck  so  far,  and  he'd  take  the  risk,  if 
we  would. 

The  shore  was  crowded  with  natives,  and  as  we 
entered  the  bay  we  saw  hundreds  take  to  the 
water  in  what  seemed  fearfully  like  war-canoes. 
We  were  all  armed  with  revolvers,  and  we  had 
half  a  dozen  rifles  handy.  As  the  islanders 
approached  we  could  see  that  they  also  were 
armed;  and  a  brawny  race  they  looked,  and 
particularly  bloodthirsty.  In  the  largest  canoe 
stood  a  splendid-looking  fellow,  evidently  a  chief. 
On  the  shore  near  a  large  palm-thatched  house  a 
great  group  was  gathered,  and  the  American, 
levelling  his  glass,  said,  "Say,  it's  a  she-queen  or 
something  over  there." 

At  that  moment  the  canoes  drew  alongside,  and 
while  MacGregor  adjured  us  to  show  no  fear,  he 
beckoned  the  chief  to  come  aboard.  An  instant, 
and  a  score  of  savages,  armed  with  spears  and 
nulla-nullas,  were  on  deck.  MacGregor  made  signs 
that  we  were  hungry,  Blithelygo  that  we  were 
thirsty,  and  the  American,  smoking  all  the  while, 
offered  the  chief  a  cigar.  The  cigar  was  refused, 
but  the  headman  ordered  a  couple  of  natives 
ashore,  and  in  five  minutes  we  had  wild  bananas 
and  fish  to  eat,  and  water  to  drink.  But  that 
five  minutes  of  waiting  were  filled  with  awkward 

221 


CUMNER'S  SON 

incidents.  Blithelygo,  meaning  to  be  hospitable, 
had  brought  up  a  tumbler  of  claret  for  the  head- 
man. With  violent  language  MacGregor  stopped 
its  presentation;  upon  which  the  poison  of  sus- 
picion evidently  entered  the  mind  of  the  savage, 
and  he  grasped  his  spear  threateningly.  Van 
Blaricom,  who  wore  a  long  gold  watch-chain,  now 
took  it  off  and  offered  it  to  the  chief,  motioning 
him  to  put  it  round  his  neck.  The  hand  was 
loosened  on  the  spear,  and  the  Chicagonian 
stepped  forward  and  put  the  chain  over  the  head 
of  the  native.  As  he  did  so  the  chief  suddenly 
thrust  his  nose  forward  and  sniffed  violently  at 
the  American. 

What  little  things  decide  the  fate  of  nations 
and  men!  This  was  a  race  whose  salutation  was 
not  nose-rubbing,  but  smelling,  and  the  American 
had  not  in  our  worst  straits  failed  to  keep  his 
hair  sleek  with  hair-oil,  verbena  scented,  and  to 
perfume  himself  daily  with  new-mown  hay  or 
heliotrope.  Thus  was  he  of  goodly  savor  to  the 
chief,  and  the  eyes  of  the  savage  grew  bright. 
At  that  moment  the  food  and  drink  came.  During 
the  repast  the  chief  chuckled  in  his  own  strange 
way,  and,  when  we  slackened  in  our  eating,  he  still 
motioned  to  us  to  go  on. 

Van  Blaricom,  who  had  been  smiling,  suddenly 
looked  grave.  "By  the  great  horn-spoons,"  he 
said,  "they  have  begun  already!  They're  fatten- 
ing us!" 

MacGregor    nodded    affirmatively,   and    then 

222 


HOW  PANGO  WANGO  WAS  ANNEXED 

Van  Blaricom's  eyes  wandered  wildly  from  the 
chief  to  that  group  on  the  shore  where  he  thought 
he  had  seen  the  "she-queen."  At  that  moment 
the  headman  came  forward  again,  again  sniffed 
at  him,  and  again  chuckled,  and  all  the  natives  as 
they  looked  on  us  chuckled  also.  It  was  most 
unpleasant.  Suddenly  I  saw  the  American  start. 
He  got  up,  turned  to  us,  and  said:  "I've  got  an 
idea.  MacGregor,  get  U.  S.  and  Bob  Lee." 

Then  he  quietly  disappeared,  the  eyes  of  the 
savages  suspiciously  following  him.  In  a  moment 
he  came  back,  bearing  in  his  arms  a  mirror,  a 
bottle  of  hair-oil,  a  couple  of  bottles  of  perfume,  a 
comb  and  brush,  some  variegated  bath -towels, 
and  an  American  flag.  First  he  let  the  chief  sniff 
at  the  bottles,  and  then,  pointing  to  the  group 
on  the  shore,  motioned  to  be  taken  over.  In  a 
few  moments  he  and  MacGregor  were  being  con- 
veyed toward  the  shore  in  the  gathering  dusk. 

Four  hours  passed.  It  was  midnight.  There 
was  noise  of  drums  and  shouting  on  the  shore, 
which  did  not  relieve  our  suspense.  Suddenly 
there  was  a  commotion  in  the  canoes  that  still 
remained  near  the  Wilderness.  The  headman 
appeared  before  us,  and  beckoned  to  Blithelygo 
and  myself  to  come.  The  beckoning  was  friendly, 
and  we  hoped  that  affairs  had  taken  a  more 
promising  turn. 

In  a  space  surrounded  with  palms  and  ti-trees 
a  great  fire  was  burning.  There  was  a  monoto- 
nous roll  of  the  savage  tom-tom  and  a  noise  of 

15  223 


CUMNER'S  SON 

shouting  and  laughter.  Yes,  we  were  safe,  and 
the  American  had  done  it.  The  Coliseum  was 
open,  MacGregor  was  ring-master,  and  U.  S.  and 
Bob  Lee  were  at  work.  This  show,  with  other  in- 
fluences, had  conquered  Pango  Wango.  The 
American  flag  was  hoisted  on  a  staff,  and  on  a 
mighty  stump  there  sat  Van  Blaricom,  almost 
innocent  of  garments,  I  grieve  to  say,  with  one 
whom  we  came  to  know  as  Totimalu,  Queen  of 
Pango  Wango,  a  half  circle  of  savages  behind 
them.  Van  Blaricom  and  MacGregor  had  been 
naturalized  by  having  their  shoulders  lanced  with 
a  spear-point,  and  then  rubbed  against  the  lanced 
shoulders  of  the  chiefs.  The  taking  of  Pango 
Wango  had  not  been,  I  fear,  a  moral  victory. 
Van  Blaricom  was  smoking  a  cigar,  and  was  writ- 
ing on  a  piece  of  paper,  using  the  back  of  a  Pango 
Wango  man  as  a  desk.  The  Queen's  garments 
were  chiefly  variegated  bath-towels,  and  she  was 
rubbing  her  beaming  countenance  and  ample 
bosom  with  hair-oil  and  essence  of  new-mown 
hay. 

Van  Blaricom  nodded  to  us  nonchalantly,  say- 
ing: "It's  all  right — she's  Totimalu,  the  Queen. 
Sign  here,  Queen,"  and  he  motioned  for  the  obese 
beauty  to  hold  the  pencil.  She  did  so,  and  then 
he  stood  up,  and,  while  the  cock-fight  still  went 
on,  he  read,  with  a  fine  Chicago  fluency,  what 
proved  to  be  a  proclamation.  As  will  be  seen,  it 
was  full  of  ellipses  and  was  fragmentary  in  its 
character,  though  completely  effective  in  fact: 

224 


HOW  PANGO  WANGO  WAS  ANNEXED 

"Know  all  men  by  these  Presents,  et  cetera, 
et  cetera,  et  cetera.  Seeing  that  all  men  are  born 
free  and  equal  (vide  United  States  Constitution), 
et  cetera.  We,  Jude  Van  Blaricom,  of  the  city  of 
Chicago,  with  and  by  the  consent  of  Queen  Toti- 
malu,  do,  in  the  name  of  George  Washington,  Abe 
Lincoln,  Grover  Cleveland,  and  the  State  of  Il- 
linois, and  by  the  Grace  of  Heaven,  et  cetera,  et 
cetera,  et  cetera,  hereby  annex  the  Kingdom  of 
Pango  Wango  to  be  of  the  territory  of  the  Ameri- 
can Union,  to  have  and  to  hold  from  this  day 
forth  (vide  Constitution  of  the  United  States),  et 
cetera. 

"Signed,  JUDE  VAN  BLARICOM, 

"TOTIMALU  x  (her  mark)." 

"Beat  the  drums,  you  niggers!"  he  cried,  and 
patted  Totimalu's  shoulder.  "Come  and  join  the 
royal  party,  gentlemen,  and  pay  your  respects. 
Shake!  That's  right." 

Thus  was  Pango  Wango  annexed. 


AN  AMIABLE   REVENGE 

WHENEVER  any  one  says  to  me  that  civilization 
is  a  failure,  I  refer  him  to  certain  records  of  Tonga, 
and  tell  him  the  story  of  an  amiable  revenge.  He 
is  invariably  convinced  that  savages  can  learn 
easily  the  forms  of  convention  and  the  arts  of 
government — and  other  things.  The  Tongans 
once  had  a  rough  and  coarsely  effective  means  for 
preserving  order  and  morality,  but  the  whole 
scheme  was  too  absurdly  simple.  Now,  with  a 
Constitution  and  a  Sacred  Majesty,  and  two 
Houses  of  Parliament,  and  a  native  Magistracy, 
they  show  that  they  are  capable  of  becoming 
European  in  its  most  pregnant  meaning.  As  the 
machinery  has  increased  the  grist  for  the  mill  has 
grown.  There  was  a  time  when  a  breach  of  the 
Seventh  Commandment  was  punished  in  Tonga 
with  death,  and  it  was  therefore  rarely  committed. 
It  is  no  rarity  now — so  does  law  and  civilization 
provide  opportunities  for  proving  their  existence. 

On  landing  at  Nukalofa,  the  capital  of  Tonga, 
some  years  ago,  I  naturally  directed  my  steps  tow- 
ard the  residence  of  the  British  consul.  The  route 
lay  along  an  arc  of  emerald  and  opal  shore,  the 

226 


AN  AMIABLE  REVENGE 

swaying  cocoa-palms  overhead,  and  native  huts 
and  missionary  conventicles  hidden  away  in  cov- 
erts of  ti-trees,  hybiscus  bushes,  and  limes;  the 
sensuous,  perfume-ladened  air  pervading  all.  I 
had  seen  the  British  flag  from  the  coral-bulwarked 
harbor,  but  could  not  find  it  now.  Leaving  the 
indolent  village  behind,  I  passed  the  Palace,  where 
I  beheld  the  sacred  majesty  of  Tonga  on  the 
veranda  sleepily  flapping  the  flies  from  his  aged 
calves,  and  I  could  not  find  that  flag.  Had  I 
passed  it  ?  Was  it  yet  to  come  ?  I  leaned  against 
a  bread-fruit  tree  and  thought  upon  it.  The  shore 
was  deserted.  Nobody  had  taken  any  notice  of 
me;  even  the  German  steamer  Liibeck  had  not 
brought  a  handful  of  the  population  to  the  Quay. 
I  was  about  to  make  up  my  mind  to  go  back 
to  the  Liibeck  and  sulk,  when  a  native  issued  from 
the  grove  at  my  left  and  blandly  gazed  upon  me 
as  he  passed.  He  wore  a  flesh -colored  vala  about 
the  loins,  a  red  pandanus  flower  in  his  ear,  and  a 
lia-lia  of  hybiscus  blossoms  about  his  neck.  That 
was  all.  Evidently  he  was  not  interested  in  me, 
for  he  walked  on.  I  choked  back  my  feelings  of 
hurt  pride,  and  asked  him  in  an  offhand  kind  of 
way,  and  in  a  sort  of  pigeon-English,  if  he  could 
tell  me  where  the  British  consul  lived.  The  stal- 
wart subject  of  King  George  Tabou  looked  at  me 
gravely  for  an  instant,  then  turned  and  motioned 
down  the  road.  I  walked  on  beside  him,  im- 
properly offended  by  his  dignified  airs,  his  cool- 
ness of  body  and  manner,  and  what  I  considered 

227 


CUMNER'S  SON 

the  insolent  plumpness  and  form  of  his  chest  and 
limbs. 

He  was  a  harmony  in  brown  and  red.  Even  his 
hair  was  brown.  I  had  to  admit  to  myself  that 
in  point  of  comeliness  I  could  not  stand  the  same 
scrutiny  in  the  same  amount  of  costume.  Per- 
haps that  made  me  a  little  imperious,  a  little  su- 
perior in  manner.  Reducing  my  English  to  his 
comprehension  as  I  measured  it — he  bowed  when 
I  asked  him  if  he  understood — I  explained  to  him 
many  things  necessary  for  the  good  of  his  country. 
Remembering  where  I  was,  I  expressed  myself  in 
terms  that  were  gentle  though  austere  regarding 
the  King,  and  reproved  the  supineness  and  stupid- 
ity of  the  Crown  Prince.  Lamenting  the  departed 
puissance  of  the  sons  of  Tongatabu,  I  warmed  to 
my  subject,  telling  this  savage  who  looked  at  me 
with  so  neutral  a  countenance  how  much  I  de- 
plored the  decadence  of  his  race.  I  bade  him  think 
of  the  time  when  the  Tongans,  in  token  of  mag- 
nanimous amity,  rubbed  noses  with  the  white 
man,  and  of  where  those  noses  were  now — be- 
tween the  fingers  of  the  Caucasian.  He  appeared 
becomingly  attentive,  and  did  me  the  honor  before 
I  began  my  peroration  to  change  the  pandanus 
flower  from  the  ear  next  to  me  to  the  other. 

I  had  just  rounded  off  my  last  sentence  when 
he  pointed  to  a  house,  half -native,  half -European, 
in  front  of  which  was  a  staff  bearing  the  British 
flag.  With  the  generosity  which  marks  the  Eng- 
lishman away  from  home  I  felt  in  my  pockets  and 

228 


AN  AMIABLE  REVENGE 

found  a  sixpence.  I  handed  it  to  my  companion ; 
and  with  a  "Ta/o/a" — the  only  Tongan  I  knew — 
I  passed  into  the  garden  of  the  consulate.  The 
consul  himself  came  to  the  door  when  I  knocked 
on  the  lintel.  After  glancing  at  my  card  he  shook 
me  by  the  hand,  and  then  paused.  His  eyes  were 
intently  directed  along  the  road  by  which  I  had 
come.  I  looked  back,  and  there  stood  the  stal- 
wart Tongan  where  I  had  left  him,  gazing  at  the 
sixpence  I  had  placed  in  his  hand.  There  was  a 
kind  of  stupefaction  in  his  attitude.  Presently 
the  consul  said,  somewhat  tartly:  "Ah,  you've 
been  to  the  Palace — the  Crown  Prince  has  brought 
you  over!" 

It  was  not  without  a  thrill  of  nervousness  that 
I  saw  my  royal  guide  flip  the  sixpence  into  his 
mouth — he  had  no  pocket — and  walk  back  tow- 
ard the  royal  abode. 

I  told  the  consul  just  how  it  was.  In  turn  he 
told  his  daughter,  the  daughter  told  the  native 
servants,  and  in  three  minutes  the  place  was 
echoing  with  languid  but  appreciative  laughter. 
Natives  came  to  the  door  to  look  at  me,  and  after 
wide-eyed  smiling  at  me  for  a  minute  gave  place 
to  others.  Though  I  too  smiled,  my  thoughts 
were  gloomy ;  for  now  it  seemed  impossible  to  go 
to  the  Palace  and  present  myself  to  King  George 
and  the  Heir- Apparent.  But  the  consul,  and, 
still  more,  the  consul's  daughter,  insisted;  pooh- 
poohing  my  hesitation.  At  this  distance  from 
the  scene  and  after  years  of  meditation  I  am  con- 

229 


CUMNER'S  SON 

vinced  that  their  efforts  to  induce  me  to  go  were 
merely  an  unnatural  craving  for  sensation. 

I  went — we  three  went.  Even  a  bare-legged 
King  has  in  his  own  house  an  advantage  over  the 
European  stranger.  I  was  heated,  partly  from 
self-repression,  partly  from  Scotch  tweed.  King 
George  was  quite,  quite  cool,  and  unencumbered, 
save  for  a  trifling  calico  jacket,  a  pink  lava-lava, 
and  the  august  fly-flapper.  But  what  heated  me 
most,  I  think,  was  the  presence  of  the  Crown 
Prince,  who,  on  my  presentation,  looked  at  me 
as  though  he  had  never  seen  me  before.  He  was 
courteous,  however,  directing  a  tappa  cloth  to  be 
spread  for  me.  The  things  I  intended  to  say  to 
King  George  for  the  good  of  himself  and  his  king- 
dom, which  I  had  thought  out  on  the  steamer 
Lubeck  and  rehearsed  to  my  guide  a  few  hours 
before,  would  not  be  tempted  forth.  There  was 
silence;  for  the  consul  did  not  seem  "to  be  on  in 
the  scene,"  and  presently  the  King  of  Holy  Tonga 
nodded  and  fell  asleep.  Then  the  Crown  Prince 
came  forward,  and  beckoned  me  to  go  with  him. 
He  led  me  to  a  room  which  was  composed  of  mats 
and  bamboo  pillars  chiefly.  At  first  I  thought 
there  were  about  ten  pillars  to  support  the  roof, 
but  my  impression  before  I  left  was  that  there 
were  about  ten  thousand.  For  which  multiplica- 
tion there  were  good  reasons. 

Again  a  beautiful  tappa  cloth  was  spread  for 
me,  and  then  ten  maidens  entered,  and  sitting  in 
a  semi-circle  began  to  chew  a  root  called  kava, 

230 


AN  AMIABLE  REVENGE 

which,  when  sufficiently  masticated,  they  returned 
into  a  calabash,  water  being  poured  on  the  result. 
Meanwhile,  the  Prince,  dreamily  and  ever  so  gently, 
was  rolling  some  kind  of  weed  between  his  fingers. 
About  the  time  the  maidens  had  finished,  the 
Crown  Prince's  cigarette  was  ready.  A  small  cala- 
bash of  the  Result  was  handed  to  me,  and  the 
cigarette  accompanied  it.  The  Crown  Prince  sat 
directly  opposite  me,  lit  his  own  cigarette,  and 
handed  the  matches.  I  distinctly  remember  the 
first  half-dozen  puffs  of  that  cigarette,  the  first 
taste  of  kava — it  had  the  flavor  of  soft-soap  and 
Dover's  powder.  I  have  smoked  French-Canadian 
tobacco,  I  have  puffed  Mexican  hair-lifters,  but 
Heaven  had  preserved  me  till  that  hour  from  the 
cigarettes  of  a  Crown  Prince  of  Tonga.  As  I  said, 
the  pillars  multiplied;  the  mats  seemed  rising 
from  the  floor;  the  maidens  grew  into  a  leering 
army  of  Amazons;  but  through  it  all  the  face  of 
the  Crown  Prince  never  ceased  to  smile  upon  me 
gently. 

There  were  some  incidents  of  that  festival  which 
I  may  have  forgotten,  for  the  consul  said  after- 
ward that  I  was  with  his  Royal  Highness  about 
an  hour  and  a  half.  The  last  thing  I  remember 
about  the  visit  was  the  voice  of  the  successor  to 
the  throne  of  Holy  Tonga  asking  me  blandly,  in 
perfect  English:  "Will  you  permit  me  to  show 
you  the  way  to  the  consul's  house?" 

To  my  own  credit  I  respectfully  declined. 


THE   BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  THE 
LITTLE   RED   PEG 

As  Sherry  and  I  left  the  theatre  in  Mexico  City 
one  night,  we  met  a  blind  beggar  tapping  his  way 
home.  Sherry  stopped  him.  "Good -evening," 
he  said,  over  the  blind  man's  shoulder. 

"Good-evening,  senor,"  was  the  reply. 

"You  are  late." 

"Si,  senor,"  and  the  blind  man  pushed  a  hand 
down  in  his  coat-pocket. 

"He's  got  his  fist  on  the  rhino,"  said  Sherry  to 
me  in  English.  "He's  not  quite  sure  whether 
we're  footpads  or  not — poor  devil." 

"How  much  has  he  got?"  asked  I. 

"Perhaps  four  or  five  dollars.  Good  business, 
eh?  Got  it  in  big  money  mostly,  too — had  it 
changed  at  some  cafe"." 

The  blind  man  was  nervous,  seemed  not  to 
understand  us.  He  made  as  if  to  move  on. 
Sherry  and  I,  to  reassure  him,  put  a  few  reals  into 
his  hand — not  without  an  object,  for  I  asked 
Sherry  to  make  him  talk  on.  A  policeman 
sauntered  near  with  his  large  lantern — a  superior 
sort  of  Dogberry,  but  very  young,  as  are  most  of 

232 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  LITTLE  RED  PEG 

the  policemen  in  Mexico,  save  the  Rurales,  that 
splendid  company  of  highwaymen  whom  Diaz 
bought  over  from  being  bandits  to  be  the  guardians 
of  the  peace.  This  one  eyed  us  meaningly,  but 
Sherry  gave  him  a  reassuring  nod,  and  our  talk 
went  on,  while  the  blind  man  was  fingering  the 
money  we  had  just  given  him.  Presently  Sherry 
said  to  him:  "I'm  Bingham  Sherry,"  adding  some 
other  particulars — "and  you're  all  right.  I've  a 
friend  here  who  wants  to  talk  with  you.  Come 
along;  we'll  take  you  home — confound  the  garlic, 
what  a  breath  he's  got!" 

For  a  moment  the  blind  man  seemed  to  hesitate, 
then  he  raised  his  head  quickly,  as  if  looking  into 
Sherry's  face;  a  light  came  over  it,  and  he  said, 
repeating  Sherry's  name,  "Si,  senor;  si,  si,  sefior. 
I  know  you  now.  You  sit  in  the  right-hand  corner 
of  the  little  back-room  at  the  Cafe"  Manrique, 
where  you  come  to  drink  chocolate.  Is  it  not?" 

"That's  where  I  sit,"  said  Sherry.  "And  now, 
begad,  I  believe  I  remember  you.  Are  you 
Becodar?" 

"Si,  sefior." 

"Well,  I'm  damned!"  Then,  turning  to  me: 
"Lots  of  these  fellows  look  so  much  alike  that  I 
didn't  recognize  this  one.  He's  a  character.  Had 
a  queer  history.  I'll  get  him  to  tell  it." 

We  walked  on,  one  on  either  side,  Sherry  using 
his  hat  to  wave  away  the  smell  of  garlic.  Pres- 
ently he  said : 

" Where' ve  you  been  to-night,  Becodar?" 
233 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"I  have  paid  my  respects  to  the  Maison  Dore, 
to  the  Cafe  de  la  Concordia,  to  the  Caf6  Iturbide, 
senor." 

"And  how  did  paying  your  respects  pay  you, 
Becodar?" 

"The  noble  courtesy  of  these  cafes,  and  the 
great  consideration  of  the  hidalgos  there  assembled 
rendered  to  me  five  pesos  and  a  trifle,  senor." 

"The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you.  He  that 
giveth  to  the  poor  lendeth  to  the  Lord.  Becodar 
has  large  transactions  with  Providence,  mio 
amigo,"  said  Sherry. 

The  beggar  turned  his  sightless  eyes  to  us,  as 
though  he  would  understand  these  English  words. 
Sherry,  seeing,  said:  "We  were  saying,  Becodar, 
that  the  blessed  saints  know  how  to  take  care  of  a 
blind  man,  lest  having  no  boot  he  stub  his  toe 
against  a  stone." 

Off  came  Becodar's  hat.  He  tapped  the  wall. 
"Where  am  I,  senor?"  he  asked. 

Sherry  told  him.  "Ah!"  he  said,  "the  church 
of  St.  Joseph  is  near."  Then  he  crossed  himself 
and  seemed  to  hurry  his  steps.  Presently  he 
stood  still.  We  were  beside  the  church.  Against 
the  door,  in  a  niche,  was  a  figure  of  the  Virgin  in 
stone.  He  got  to  his  knees  and  prayed  fast.  And 
yet  as  he  prayed  I  saw  his  hand  go  to  his  pocket, 
and  it  fumbled  and  felt  the  money  there. 

"Begad,  he's  counting  it  all,"  said  Sherry,  "and 
now  he's  giving  thanks  for  the  exact  amount, 
adding  his  distinguished  consideration  that  the 

234 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  LITTLE  RED  PEG 

sum  is  by  three  reals  greater  than  any  day  since 
Lent  began.  He  promises  to  bring  some  flowers 
to-morrow  for  the  shrine,  and  he  also  swears  to  go 
a  pilgrimage  to  a  church  of  Mary  at  Guadaloupe, 
and  to  be  a  kind  of  compadre —  By  Jove,  there 
you  are!  He's  a  compadre — a  blind  compadre!" 
A  little  while  afterward  we  were  in  Becodar's 
house — a  low  adobe  hut  of  two  rooms  with  a  red 
light  burning  over  the  door,  to  guard  against  the 
plague.  It  had  a  table  hanging  like  a  lid  from  the 
wall,  a  stone  for  making  tortillas,  a  mortar  for 
grinding  red  peppers,  a  crucifix  on  the  wall,  a 
short  sword,  a  huge  pistol,  a  pair  of  rusty  stirrups, 
and  several  chairs.  The  chairs  seemed  to  be 
systematically  placed,  and  it  was  quite  wonderful 
to  see  how  the  beggar  twisted  in  and  out  among 
them  without  stumbling.  I  could  not  under- 
stand this,  unless  it  was  that  he  wished  to  practise 
moving  about  deftly,  that  he  might  be  at  least 
disadvantage  in  the  cafes  and  public  resorts.  He 
never  once  stirred  them,  and  I  was  presently  sur- 
prised to  see  that  they  were  all  fastened  to  the 
floor.  Sherry  seemed  as  astonished  as  I.  From 
this  strangeness  I  came  to  another.  Looking  up 
at  the  walls  I  saw  set  in  the  timber  a  number  of 
holes  cleanly  bored.  And  in  one  of  the  last  of 
these  holes  was  a  peg.  Again  my  eyes  shifted, 
From  a  nail  in  one  corner  of  the  room  hung  a 
red  and  white  zarape,  a  bridle,  one  of  those  grace- 
less bits  which  would  wrench  the  mouth  of  the 
wildest  horse  to  agony,  and  a  sombrero.  Some- 

235 


CUMNER'S  SON 

thing  in  these  things  fascinated  me.  I  got  up 
and  examined  them,  while  the  blind  man  was  in 
the  other  room.  Turning  them  over  I  saw  that 
the  zarape  was  pierced  with  holes — bullet  holes. 
I  saw  also  that  it  was  stained  a  deeper  red  than  its 
own!  I  turned  away,  questioning  Sherry.  He 
came  and  looked,  but  said  nothing,  lifting  a  hand  in 
deprecation.  As  we  stood  so,  Becodar  appeared 
again  in  the  doorway,  bearing  an  olla  of  pulque 
and  some  tortilla  sandwiches,  made  of  salad  and 
shreds  of  meat,  flavored  with  garlic.  He  paused, 
his  face  turned  toward  us,  with  an  understanding 
look.  His  instinct  was  remarkable.  He  did  not 
speak,  but  came  and  placed  the  things  he  carried 
near  the  chairs  where  we  had  sat. 

Presently  I  saw  some  writing  on  the  adobe 
wall.  The  look  of  it  showed  the  hand  of  youth, 
its  bold  carelessness,  a  boy.  Some  of  it  I  set 
down  soon  afterward,  and  it  ran  in  this  fashion: 
"The  most  good  old  compadre!  But  I'd  like 
another  real."  Again:  "One  media  for  a  bande- 
rilla,  two  reals  for  the  bull-fight,  five  centavos  for 
the  sweet  oranges,  and  nothing  for  dulces.  I 
threw  a  cigar  at  the  toreador.  It  was  no  good, 
but  the  toreador  was  a  king.  Good-night,  com- 
padre the  blind,  who  begs."  Again:  "If  I  knew 
where  it  was  I'd  take  a  real.  Carambo!  No,  I 
wouldn't.  I'll  ask  him.  I'll  give  him  the  new 
sword-stick  that  my  cousin  the  Rurales  gave  me. 
He  doesn't  need  it  now  he's  not  a  bandit.  I'm 
stuffed,  and  my  head  swims,  It's  the  pulque. 

236 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  LITTLE  RED  PEG 

Sabe  Dios."  Again:  "Compadre,  the  most  miracu- 
lous, that  goes  tapping  your  stick  along  the  wall, 
and  jingles  the  silver  in  your  pocket,  whither  do 
you  wander?  Have  you  forgotten  that  I  am 
going  to  the  cock-fight,  and  want  a  real?  What 
is  a  cock-fight  without  a  real?  Compadre  the 
brave,  who  stumbles  along  and  never  falls,  I  am 
sitting  on  your  doorstep,  and  I  am  writing  on 
your  wall — if  I  had  as  much  money  as  you  I'd 
go  to  every  bull-fight.  I'd  keep  a  fighting-cock 
myself."  And  once  again:  "If  I  was  blind  I'd 
have  money  out  of  the  cafes,  but  I  couldn't  see 
my  bulls  toss  the  horses.  I'll  be  a  bandit,  and 
when  I'm  old,  and  if  Diaz  doesn't  put  me  against 
the  wall  and  prod  holes  in  me  like  Gonzales, 
they'll  take  me  in  the  Rurales,  same  as  Ge- 
rado." 

"Who  is  it  writes  on  the  wall,  Becodar?"  asked 
Sherry  of  our  host,  as,  on  his  knees,  he  poured  out 
pulque  for  us. 

The  old  man  turned  musingly,  and  made  mo- 
tions of  writing,  a  pleased  look  in  his  face.  "Ah, 
senor,  he  who  so  writes  is  Bernal — I  am  his  com- 
padre.  He  has  his  mother  now,  but  no  father,  no 
father!"  He  smiled.  "You  have  never  seen  so 
bold  and  enterprising,  never  so  handsome  a  boy. 
He  can  throw  the  lasso  and  use  the  lariat,  and 
ride — Sabe  Dios,  he  can  ride!  His  cousin  Gerado 
the  Rurales  taught  him.  I  do  well  by  him  as  I 
may,  who  have  other  things  to  think  on.  But  I 
do  well  by  him." 

237 


.      CUMNER'S  SON 

' '  What  became  of  his  father,  Becodar  ?  Dead  ?" 
asked  Sherry. 

The  beggar  crossed  himself.  "Altogether,  senor. 
And  such  a  funeral  had  he,  with  the  car  all  draped, 
and  even  the  mutes  with  the  gold  braid  on  their 
black.  I  will  tell  you  how  it  was.  We  were 
great  friends,  Bernal's  father  and  me,  and  when 
the  boy  was  born,  I  said,  I  will  be  compadre  to 
him.  ("Godfather,  or  co-father,"  interposed 
Sherry  to  me.)  I  had  my  sight  then,  senors,  out 
of  the  exalted  mercy  of  the  saints.  Ah,  those 
were  great  times,  when  I  had  my  eyes,  and  no 
gray  hairs,  and  could  wear  my  sword,  and  ride  my 
horses.  There  was  work  to  do  then,  with  sword 
and  horses.  It  was  revolution  here  and  rebellion 
there,  and  bandits  everywhere.  Ah,  well,  it  is  no 
matter;  I  was  speaking  of  the  boy  and  his  father 
and  myself  the  compadre.  We  were  all  great 
friends.  But  you  know  the  way  of  men.  One  day 
he  and  I — Santiago,  Bernal's  father — had  been 
drinking  mescal.  We  quarrelled — I  know  not 
why.  It  is  not  well  nor  right  for  a  padre  and  a 
compadre  to  fight — there  is  trouble  in  heaven 
over  that.  But  there  is  a  way;  and  we  did  it  as 
others  have  done.  We  took  off  our  sombreros, 
and  put  our  compadreship  on  the  ground  under 
them.  That  was  all  right — it  was  hid  there  under 
the  hat.  Then  we  stood  up  and  fought — such  a 
fight! — for  half  an  hour.  Then  he  cut  me  in  the 
thigh — a  great  gash — and  I  caught  him  in  the 
neck  the  same.  We  both  came  to  the  ground  then, 

238 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  LITTLE  RED  PEG 

the  fight  was  over,  and  we  were,  of  course,  good 
friends  again.  I  dragged  myself  over  to  him  as  he 
lay  there,  and  lifted  his  head  and  sopped  the  blood 
at  his  neck  with  my  scarf.  I  did  not  think  that 
he  was  hurt  so  bad.  But  he  said :  'I  am  gone,  my 
Becodar.  I  haven't  got  five  minutes  in  me.  Put 
on  your  compadreship  quick.'  I  snatched  up  the 
sombrero  and  put  it  on,  and  his  I  tucked  under 
his  head.  So  that  we  were  compadres  again. 
Ah,  senor,  senor!  Soon  he  drew  my  cheek  down 
to  his  and  said,  'Adios,  compadre:  Bernal  is  thine 
now.  While  your  eyes  see,  and  your  foot  travels, 
let  him  not  want  a  friend.  Adios!'  That  was 
the  end  of  him.  They  had  me  in  Balim  for  a  year, 
and  then  I  came  out  to  the  boy;  and  since  then 
for  twelve  years  he  has  not  suffered." 

At  this  point  he  offered  us  the  pulque  and  the 
sandwiches,  and  I  took  both,  eating  and  enjoying 
as  well  as  I  could.  Sherry  groaned,  but  took  the 
pulque,  refusing  the  sandwiches  almost  violently. 

"How  did  you  lose  your  sight,  Becodar?" 
asked  Sherry,  presently. 

Becodar  sat  perfectly  still  for  a  moment,  and 
then  said,  in  a  low  voice:  "I  will  tell  you.  I  will 
make  the  story  short.  Gentle  God,  what  a  thing 
it  was!  I  was  for  Gonzales  then — a  loyal  gentle- 
man, he  called  me — I  a  gentleman!  But  that 
was  his  way.  I  was  more  of  a  spy  for  him.  Well, 
I  found  out  that  a  revolution  was  to  happen,  so  I 
gave  the  word  to  Gonzales,  and  with  the  soldiers 
came  to  Puebla.  The  leaders  were  captured  in  a 

16  239 


CUMNER'S  SON 

house,  brought  out,  and  without  trial  were  set 
against  a  wall.  I  can  remember  it  so  well — so 
well!  The  light  was  streaming  from  an  open  door 
upon  the  wall.  They  were  brought  out,  taken 
across  the  road  and  stood  against  a  wall.  I  was 
standing  a  distance  away,  for  at  the  moment  I 
was  sorry,  though,  to  be  sure,  senor,  it  was  for 
the  cause  of  the  country  then,  I  thought.  As  I 
stood  there  looking,  the  light  that  streamed  from 
the  doorway  fell  straight  upon  a  man  standing 
against  that  wall.  It  was  my  brother — Alphonso, 
my  brother.  I  shrieked  and  ran  forward,  but 
the  rifles  spat  out  at  the  moment,  and  the  five 
men  fell.  Alphonso — ah,  I  thank  the  Virgin  every 
day !  he  did  not  know.  His  zarape  hangs  there  on 
the  wall,  his  sombrero,  his  sword,  and  his  stirrups." 

Sherry  shifted  nervously  hrhis  seat.  "There's 
stuff  for  you,  amigo,"  he  said  to  me.  "Makes  you 
chilly,  doesn't  it  ?  Shot  his  own  brother — amounts 
to  same  thing,  doesn't  it?  All  right,  Becodar, 
we're  both  sorry,  and  will  pray  for  his  departed 
spirit;  go  ahead,  Becodar." 

The  beggar  kept  pulling  at  a  piece  of  black  rib- 
bon which  was  tied  to  the  arm  of  the  chair  in 
which  he  now  sat.  "Senors,  after  that  I  became 
a  revolutionist — that  was  the  only  way  to  make 
it  up  to  my  brother,  except  by  masses — I  gave 
candles  for  every  day  in  the  year.  One  day  they 
were  all  in  my  house  here,  sitting  just  where  you 
sit  in  those  chairs.  Our  leader  was  Castodilian, 
the  bandit  with  the  long  yellow  hair.  We  had 

240 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  LITTLE  RED  PEG 

a  keg  of  powder  which  we  were  going  to  distribute. 
All  at  once  Gonzales'  soldiers  burst  in.  There  was 
a  fight,  we  were  overpowered,  and  Castodilian 
dropped  his  cigar — he  had  kept  it  in  his  mouth 
all  the  time — in  the  powder-keg.  It  killed  most 
of  us.  I  lost  my  eyes.  Gonzales  forgave  me,  if  I 
would  promise  to  be  a  revolutionist  no  more. 
What  was  there  to  do?  I  took  the  solemn  oath 
at  the  grave  of  my  mother ;  and  so — and  so,  sefiors." 

Sherry  had  listened  with  a  quizzical  intentness, 
now  and  again  cocking  his  head  at  some  dramatic 
bit,  and  when  Becodar  paused  he  suddenly  leaned 
over  and  thrust  a  dollar  into  the  ever-waiting 
hand.  Becodar  gave  a  great  sign  of  pleasure,  and 
fumbled  again  with  the  money  in  his  pocket. 
Then,  after  a  moment  it  shifted  to  the  bit  of  rib- 
bon that  hung  from  the  chair:  "See,  sefiors,"  he 
said.  "I  tied  this  ribbon  to  the  chair  all  those 
years  ago." 

My  eyes  were  on  the  peg  and  the  holes  in  the 
wall.  Sherry  questioned  him.  "Why  do  you 
spike  the  wall  with  the  little  red  peg,  Becodar?" 

"The  Little  Red  Peg,  sefior?  Ah!  It  is  not 
wonderful  you  notice  that.  There  are  eight  bullet 
holes  in  that  zarape" — he  pointed  to  the  wall — 
"there  are  eight  holes  in  the  wall  for  the  Little 
Red  Peg.  Well,  of  the  eight  men  who  fired  on 
my  brother,  two  are  left,  as  you  may  see.  The 
others  are  all  gone,  this  way  or  that." 

Sherry  shrugged  a  shoulder.  "There  are  two 
left,  eh,  Becodar  ?  How  will  they  die,  and  when  ?" 

241 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Becodar  was  motionless  as  a  stone  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  said,  softly:  "I  do  not  know 
quite  how  or  when.  But  one  drinks  much  mescal, 
and  the  other  has  a  taste  for  quarrel.  He  will 
get  in  trouble  with  the  Rurales,  and  then  good- 
bye to  him!  Four  others  on  furlough  got  in 
trouble  with  the  Rurales,  and  that  was  the  end. 
They  were  taken  at  different  times  for  some  fault 
— by  Gerado's  company — Gerado,  my  cousin. 
Camping  at  night,  they  tried  to  escape.  There  is 
the  Law  of  Fire,  senors,  as  you  know.  If  a  man 
thinks  his  guard  sleeps,  and  makes  a  run  for  it, 
they  do  not  chase — they  fire;  and  if  he  escapes 
unhurt,  good;  he  is  not  troubled.  But  the 
Rurales  are  fine  shots!" 

"You  mean,"  said  Sherry,  "that  the  Rurales — 
your  Gerado,  for  one — pretended  to  sleep — to  be 
careless.  The  fellows  made  a  rush  for  it  and  were 
dropped?  Eh,  Becodar,  of  the  Little  Red  Peg?" 

Becodar  shrugged  a  shoulder  gently.  "Ah, 
senor,  who  can  tell?  My  Gerado  is  a  sure  shot." 

"Egad,"  said  Sherry,  "who'd  have  thought  it? 
It  looks  like  a  sweet  little  vendetta,  doesn't  it? 
A  blind  beggar,  too,  with  his  Gerado  to  help  the 
thing  along.  'With  his  Gerado!'  Sounds  like  a 
Gatling,  or  a  bomb,  or  a  diabolical  machine, 
doesn't  it?  And  yet  they  talk  of  this  country 
being  Americanized!  You  can't  Americanize  a 
country  with  a  real  history.  Well,  Becodar,  that's 
four.  What  of  the  other  two  that  left  for  King- 
dom Come?'" 

242 


THE  BLIND  BEGGAR  AND  LITTLE  RED  PEG 

Becodar  smiled  pensively.  He  seemed  to  be 
enduring  a  kind  of  joy,  or  else  making  light  of  a 
kind  of  sorrow.  "Ah!  those  two!  They  were 
camping  in  a  valley;  they  were  escorting  a  small 
party  of  people  who  had  come  to  look  at  ruins — 
Diaz  was  President  then.  Well,  a  party  of  Aztecs 
on  the  other  side  of  the  river  began  firing  across, 
not  as  if  doing  or  meaning  any  harm.  By-and-by 
the  shot  came  rattling  through  the  tent  of  the 
two.  One  got  up,  and  yelled  across  to  them  to 
stop,  but  a  chance  bullet  brought  him  down,  and 
then  by  some  great  mistake  a  lot  of  bullets  came 
through  the  tent,  and  the  other  soldier  was  killed. 
It  was  all  a  mistake,  of  course." 

"Yes,"  cynically  said  Sherry.  "The  Aztecs  got 
rattled,  and  then  the  bullets  rattled.  And  what 
was  done  to  the  Aztecs?" 

"Senor,  what  could  be  done?  They  meant  no 
harm,  as  you  can  see." 

"Of  course,  of  course;  but  you  put  the  Little 
Red  Peg  down  two  holes  just  the  same,  eh,  my 
Becodar — with  your  Gerado.  I  smell  a  great  man 
in  your  Gerado,  Becodar.  Your  bandit  turned 
soldier  is  a  notable  gentleman — gentlemen  all  his 
tribe.  .  .  .  You  see,"  Sherry  added  to  me,  "the 
country  was  infested  with  bandits — some  big 
names  in  this  land  had  bandit  for  their  titles  one 
time  or  another.  Well,  along  came  Diaz,  a  great 
man.  He  said  to  the  bandits:  'How  much  do 
you  make  a  year  at  your  trade  ?'  They  told  him. 
'Then/  said  he,  'I'll  give  you  as  much  a  month 

243 


CUMNER'S  SON 

and  clothe  you.  You'll  furnish  your  own  horses 
and  keep  them,  and  hold  the  country  in  order. 
Put  down  the  banditti,  be  my  boundary-riders, 
my  gentlemen  guards,  and  we  will  all  love  and 
cherish  you.'  And  'it  was  so,'  as  Scripture  says. 
And  this  Gerado  can  serve  our  good  compadre 
here,  and  the  Little  Red  Peg  in  the  walls  keeps 
tally." 

' '  What  shall  you  do  with  Bernal  the  boy  when 
he  grows  up?"  added  Sherry,  presently. 

"There  is  the  question  for  my  mind,  sefior,"  he 
answered.  ' '  He  would  be  a  toreador — already  has 
he  served  the  matador  in  the  ring,  though  I  did 
not  know  it,  foolish  boy!  But  I  would  have  him 
in  the  Rurales." 

Here  he  fetched  out  and  handed  us  a  bottle  of 
mescal.  Sherry  lifted  his  glass. 

"To  the  day  when  the  Little  Red  Peg  goes  no 
farther!"  he  said.  We  drank. 

"To  the  blind  compadre  and  the  boy!"  I  added, 
and  we  drank  again. 

A  moment  afterward  in  the  silent  street  I 
looked  back.  The  door  was  shut,  and  the  wee 
scarlet  light  was  burning  over  it.  I  fell  to  think- 
ing of  the  Little  Red  Peg  in  the  wall. 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

I 

"SEE,  madame — there,  on  the  Hill  of  Pains,  the 
long  finger  of  the  Semaphore !  One  more  prisoner 
has  escaped — one  more." 

' '  One  more,  Marie.  It  is  the  life  here — that  on 
the  Hill,  this  here  below;  and  yet  the  sun  is 
bright,  the  cockatoos  are  laughing  in  the  palms, 
and  you  hear  my  linnet  singing." 

"It  turns  so  slowly.  Now  it  points  across  the 
Winter  Valley.  Ah!" 

"Yes,  across  the  Winter  Valley,  where  the  deep 
woods  are,  and  beyond  to  the  Pascal  River." 

' '  Toward  my  home.  How  dim  the  light  is  now ! 
I  can  only  see  it — like  a  long  dark  ringer  yonder." 

"No,  my  dear,  there  is  bright  sunshine  still; 
there  is  no  cloud  at  all;  but  it  is  like  a  finger;  it 
is  quivering  now,  as  though  it  were  not  sure." 

"Thank  God,  if  it  be  not  sure!  But  the  hill  is 
cloudy,  as  I  said." 

"No,  Marie.  How  droll  you  are!  The  hill  is 
not  cloudy;  even  at  this  distance  one  can  see 
something  glisten  beside  the  grove  of  pines." 

245 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"I  know.  It  is  the  White  Rock,  where  King 
Ovi  died." 

"Marie,  turn  your  face  to  me.  Your  eyes  are 
full  of  tears.  Your  heart  is  tender.  Your  tears 
are  for  the  prisoner  who  has  escaped — the  hunted 
in  the  chase." 

She  shuddered  a  little  and  added,  "Wherever 
he  is,  that  long  dark  finger  on  the  Hill  of  Pains 
will  find  him  out — the  remorseless  Semaphore." 

"No,  madame,  I  am  selfish;  I  weep  for  myself. 
Tell  me  truly,  as — as  if  I  were  your  own  child- 
was  there  no  cloud,  no  sudden  darkness,  out  there, 
as  we  looked  toward  the  Hill  of  Pains." 

"None,  dear." 

"Then — then — madame,  I  suppose  it  was  my 
tears  that  blinded  me  for  the  moment." 

"No  doubt  it  was  your  tears." 

But  each  said  in  her  heart  that  it  was  not  tears ; 
each  said:  "Let  not  this  thing  come,  O  God!" 
Presently  with  a  caress  the  elder  woman  left  the 
room ;  but  the  girl  remained  to  watch  that  gloomy 
thing  upon  the  Hill  of  Pains. 

As  she  stood  there,  with  her  fingers  clasped  upon 
a  letter  she  had  drawn  from  her  pocket,  a  voice 
from  among  the  palms  outside  floated  toward  her. 

"He  escaped  last  night;  the  Semaphore  shows 
that  they  have  got  upon  his  track.  I  suppose 
they'll  try  to  converge  upon  him  before  he  gets  to 
Pascal  River.  Once  there  he  might  have  a  chance 
of  escape;  but  he'll  need  a  lot  of  luck,  poor  devil !" 

Marie's  fingers  tightened  on  the  letter. 
246 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

Then  another  voice  replied,  and  it  brought  a 
flush  to  the  cheek  of  the  girl,  a  hint  of  trouble  to 
her  eyes.  It  said :  "  Is  Miss  Wyndham  here  still  ?" 

"Yes,  still  here.  My  wife  will  be  distressed 
when  she  leaves  us." 

"She  will  not  care  to  go,  I  should  think.  The 
Hotel  du  Gouverneur  spoils  us  for  all  other  places 
in  New  Caledonia." 

"You  are  too  kind,  monsieur.  I  fear  that  those 
who  think  as  you  are  not  many.  After  all,  I  am 
little  more  here  than  a  jailer — merely  a  jailer, 
M.  Tryon." 

"Yet  the  Commandant  of  a  military  station 
and  the  Governor  of  a  colony." 

"The  station  is  a  penitentiary;  the  colony  for 
liberts,  ticket-of -leave  men  and  outcast  Paris; 
with  a  sprinkling  of  gentlemen  and  officers  dying 
of  boredom.  No,  my  friend,  we  French  are  not 
colonists.  We  emigrate,  we  do  not  colonize.  This 
is  no  colony.  We  do  no  good  here." 

"You  forget  the  nickel-mines." 

"Quarries  for  the  convicts  and  for  political 
prisoners  of  the  lowest  class." 

"The  plantations?" 

"Ah,  there  I  crave  your  pardon.  You  are  a 
planter,  but  you  are  English.  M.  Wyndham  is  a 
planter  and  an  owner  of  mines,  but  he  is  English. 
The  man  who  has  done  best  financially  in  New  Cal- 
edonia is  an  Englishman.  You,  and  a  few  others 
like  you,  French  and  English,  are  the  only  colony 
I  have.  I  do  not  rule  you ;  you  help  me  to  rule." 

247 


CUMNER'3  SON 

"We?" 

' '  By  being  on  the  side  of  justice  and  public 
morality ;  by  dining  with  me,  though  all  too  sel- 
dom; by  giving  me  a  quiet  hour  now  and  then 
beneath  your  vines  and  fig-trees;  and  so  making 
this  uniform  less  burdensome  to  carry.  No,  no, 
monsieur,  I  know  you  are  about  to  say  something 
very  gracious;  but  no,  you  shall  pay  your  com- 
pliments to  the  ladies." 

As  they  journeyed  to  the  morning-room  Hugh 
Tryon  said:  "Does  M.  Laflamme  still  come  to 
paint  Miss  Wyndham?" 

"Yes;  but  it  ends  to-morrow,  and  then  no  more 
of  that.  Prisoners  are  prisoners,  and  though  La- 
flamme is  agreeable,  that  makes  it  the  more  diffi- 
cult." 

"Why  should  he  be  treated  so  well,  as  a  first- 
class  prisoner,  and  others  of  the  Commune  be  so 
degraded  here — as  Mayer,  for  instance?" 

"It  is  but  a  question  of  degree.  He  was  an 
artist  and  something  of  a  dramatist;  he  was  not 
at  the  Place  Vendome  at  a  certain  critical  moment ; 
he  was  not  at  Montmartre  at  a  particular  terrible 
time;  he  was  not  a  high  officer  like  Mayer;  he 
was  young,  with  the  face  of  a  patriot.  Well,  they 
sent  Mayer  to  the  galleys  at  Toulon  first;  then, 
among  the  worst  of  the  prisoners  here — he  was 
too  bold,  too  full  of  speech ;  he  had  not  Laflamme's 
gift  of  silence,  of  pathos.  Mayer  works  coarsely, 
severely  here;  Laflamme  grows  his  vegetables, 
idles  about  Ducos,  swings  in  his  hammock,  and 

248 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

appears  at  inspections  the  picture  of  docility. 
One  day  he  sent  to  me  the  picture  of  my  wife 
framed  in  gold — here  it  is.  Is  it  not  charming? 
The  size  of  a  franc-piece  and  so  perfect!  You 
know  the  soft  hearts  of  women." 

"You  mean  that  Madame  Solde — " 

"She  persuaded  me  to  let  him  come  here  to 
paint  my  portrait.  He  has  done  so,  and  now  he 
paints  Marie  Wyndham.  But — " 

"But?— Yes?" 

"But  these  things  have  their  dangers." 

"Have  their  dangers,"  Hugh  Tryon  musingly 
repeated;  and  then  added,  under  his'  breath  al- 
most, "Escape  or — " 

"Or  something  else,"  the  Governor  rather 
sharply  interrupted;  and  then,  as  they  were  en- 
tering the  room,  gayly  continued:  "Ah,  here  we 
come,  mademoiselle,  to  pay — " 

"To  pay  your  surplus  of  compliments,  monsieur 
le  Gouverneur.  I  could  not  help  but  hear  some- 
thing of  what  you  said,"  responded  Marie,  and 
gave  her  hand  to  Tryon. 

"I  leave  you  to  mademoiselle's  tender  mercies, 
monsieur,"  said  the  Governor.  "Au  revoir!" 

When  he  had  gone,  Hugh  said:  "You  are  gay 
to-day." 

"Indeed,  no,  I  am  sad." 

"Wherefore  sad?  Is  nickel  proving  a  drug? 
Or  sugar  a  failure?  Don't  tell  me  that  your 
father  says  sugar  is  falling."  He  glanced  at  the 
letter,  which  she  unconsciously  held  in  her  hand. 

249 


CUMNER'S  SON 

She  saw  his  look,  smoothed  the  letter  a  little 
nervously  between  her  palms,  and  put  it  into  her 
pocket,  saying:  "No,  my  father  has  not  said  that 
sugar  is  falling — but  come  here,  will  you?"  and 
she  motioned  toward  the  open  window.  When 
there,  she  said,  slowly:  "That  is  what  makes  me 
sad  and  sorry,"  and  she  pointed  to  the  Semaphore 
upon  the  Hill  of  Pains. 

"You  are  too  tender-hearted,"  he  remarked. 
"A  convict  has  escaped ;  he  will  be  caught  perhaps 
— perhaps  not;  and  things  will  go  on  as  before." 

"Will  go  on  as  before.  That  is,  the  martinet 
worse  than  the  knout  de  Russe;  the  poucettes, 
the  crapaudine  on  neck  and  ankles  and  wrists; 
all,  all  as  bad  as  the  Pater  Nosier  of  the  Inquisition, 
as  Mayer  said  the  other  day  in  the  face  of  Charpen- 
tier,  the  Commandant  of  the  penitentiary.  How 
pleasant  also  to  think  of  the  Boulevard  de  Guillo- 
tine! I  tell  you  it  is  brutal,  horrible.  Think  of 
what  prisoners  have  to  suffer  here,  whose  only 
crime  is  that  they  were  of  the  Commune;  that 
they  were  a  little  madder  than  other  Frenchmen." 

"Pardon  me  if  I  say  that  as  brutal  things  were 
done  by  the  English  in  Tasmania." 

"Think  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  strokes  of 
the  'cat.'  " 

"You  concern  yourself  too  much  about  these 
things,  I  fear." 

"I  only  think  that  death  would  be  easier  than 
the  life  of  half  of  the  convicts  here." 

"They  themselves  would  prefer  it,  perhaps." 
250 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

"Tell  me,  who  is  the  convict  that  has  escaped?" 
she  feverishly  asked.  "Is  it  a  political  prisoner?" 

"You  would  not  know  him.  He  was  one  of  the 
Commune  who  escaped  shooting  in  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde.  Carbourd,  I  think,  was  his  name." 

"Carbourd,  Carbourd,"  she  repeated,  and  turned 
her  head  away  toward  the  Semaphore. 

Her  earnestness  aroused  in  Tryon  a  sudden 
flame  of  sympathy  which  had  its  origin,  as  he  well 
knew,  in  three  years  of  growing  love.  This  love 
leaped  up  now  determinedly — perhaps  unwisely; 
but  what  should  a  blunt  soul  like  Hugh  Tryon 
know  regarding  the  best  or  worst  time  to  seek  a 
woman's  heart?  He  came  close  to  her  now  and 
said :  "If  you  are  so  kind  in  thought  for  a  convict, 
I  dare  hope  that  you  would  be  more  kind  to  me." 

"Be  kind  to  you,"  she  repeated,  as  if  not  under- 
standing what  he  said,  nor  the  look  in  his  eyes. 

"For  I  am  a  prisoner,  too." 

"A  prisoner?"  she  rejoined,  a  little  tremulously 
and  coldly. 

"In  your  hands,  Marie."  His  eyes  laid  bare 
his  heart. 

"Oh!"  she  replied,  in  a  half-troubled,  half- 
indignant  tone,  for  she  was  out  of  touch  with  the 
occasion  of  his  suit,  and  every  woman  has  in  her 
mind  the  time  when  she  should  and  when  she 
should  not  be  wooed.  "Oh,  why  aren't  you  plain 
with  me?  I  hate  enigmas!" 

"Why  do  I  not  speak  plainly?  Because, 
because,  Marie,  it  is  possible  for  a  man  to  be  a 

251 


CUMNER'S  SON 

coward  in  his  speech" — he  touched  her  fingers — 
"when  he  loves." 

She  quickly  drew  her  hand  from  his.  "Oh, 
can't  we  be  friends  without  that?'' 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  at  the  window. 
Both  turned,  and  saw  the  political  prisoner,  Rive 
Laflamme,  followed  by  a  guard. 

"He  comes  to  finish  my  portrait,"  she  said. 
"This  is  the  last  sitting." 

"Marie,  must  I  go  like  this?  When  may  I  see 
you  again?  When  will  you  answer  me?  You 
will  not  make  all  the  hopes  to  end  here?" 

It  was  evident  that  some  deep  trouble  was  on 
the  girl.  She  flushed  hotly,  as  if  she  were  about 
to  reply  hotly  also,  but  she  changed  quickly,  and 
said,  not  unkindly:  "When  M.  Laflamme  has 
gone."  And  now,  as  if  repenting  of  her  unreason- 
able words  of  a  moment  before,  she  added:  "Oh, 
please  don't  think  me  hard!  I  am  sorry  that  I 
grieve  you.  I'm  afraid  I  am  not  altogether  well, 
not  altogether  happy." 

"I  will  wait  till  he  has  gone,"  the  planter  replied. 
At  the  door  he  turned  as  if  to  say  something,  but 
he  only  looked  steadily,  sadly  at  her,  and  then 
was  gone. 

She  stood  where  he  had  left  her,  gazing  in 
melancholy  abstraction  at  the  door  through  which 
he  had  passed.  There  were  footsteps  without  in 
the  hallway.  The  door  was  opened,  and  a 
servant  announced  M.  Laflamme.  The  painter- 
prisoner  entered,  followed  by  the  soldier.  Imme- 

252 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

diately  afterward  Mrs.  Angers,  Marie's  elderly 
companion,  sidled  in  gently. 

Laflamme  bowed  low,  then  turned  and  said 
coolly  to  the  soldier:  "You  may  wait  outside 
to  -  day,  Roupet.  This  is  my  last  morning's 
work.  It  is  important,  and  you  splutter  and 
cough.  You  are  too  exhausting  for  a  stu- 
dio." 

But  Roupet  answered:  "Monsieur,  I  have  my 
orders." 

"Nonsense.  This  is  the  Governor's  house.  I 
am  perfectly  safe  here.  Give  your  orders  a  change 
of  scene.  You  would  better  enjoy  the  refreshing 
coolness  of  the  corridors  this  morning.  You 
won't?  Oh  yes,  you  will.  Here's  a  cigarette — 
there,  take  the  whole  bunch — I  paid  too  much 
for  them,  but  no  matter.  Ah,  pardon  me, 
mademoiselle.  I  forgot  that  you  cannot  smoke 
here,  Roupet;  but  you  shall  have  them  all  the 
same,  there!  Parbleu!  you  are  a  handsome 
rascal,  if  you  weren't  so  wheezy!  Come,  come, 
Roupet,  make  yourself  invisible." 

The  eyes  of  the  girl  were  on  the  soldier.  They 
did  the  work  better;  a  warrior  has  a  soft  place  in 
his  heart  for  a  beautiful  woman.  He  wheeled 
suddenly,  and  disappeared  from  the  room,  motion- 
ing that  he  would  remain  at  the  door. 

The  painting  began,  and  for  half  an  hour  or 
more  was  continued  without  a  word.  In  the  si- 
lence the  placid  Angers  had  fallen  asleep. 

Nodding  slightly  toward  her,  Rive  Laflamme 
253 


CUMNER'S  SON 

said,  in  a  low  voice,  to  Marie:  "Her  hearing  at  its 
best  is  not  remarkable?" 

"Not  remarkable." 

He  spoke  more  softly.  "That  is  good.  Well, 
the  portrait  is  done.  It  has  been  the  triumph  of 
my  life  to  paint  it.  Not  that  first  joy  I  had  when 
I  won  the  great  prize  in  Paris  equals  it.  I  am 
glad;  and  yet — and  yet  there  was  much  chance 
that  it  would  never  be  finished." 

"Why?" 

"Carbourd  is  gone." 

"Yes,  I  know— well?" 

"Well,  I  should  be  gone  also  were  it  not  for  this 
portrait.  The  chance  came.  I  was  tempted.  I 
determined  to  finish  this.  I  stayed." 

"Do  you  think  that  he  will  be  caught?" 

"Not  alive.  Carbourd  has  suffered  too  much — 
the  galleys,  the  corde,  the  triangle,  everything  but 
the  guillotine.  Carbourd  has  a  wife  and  children 
— ah  yes,  you  know  all  about  it.  You  remember 
that  letter  she  sent :  I  can  recall  every  word ;  can 
you?" 

The  girl  paused,  and  then,  with  a  rapt  sympathy 
in  her  face,  repeated  slowly:  "7  am  ill,  and  our 
children  cry  for  food.  The  wife  calls  to  her  hus- 
band, my  darlings  say,  'Will  father  never  come 
home? '" 

Marie's  eyes  were  moist. 

"Mademoiselle,  he  was  no  common  criminal. 
He  would  have  died  for  the  cause  grandly.  He 
loved  France  too  wildly.  That  was  his  sin." 

254 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

"Carbourd  is  free,"  she  said,  as  though  to  her- 
self. 

"He  has  escaped."  His  voice  was  the  smallest 
whisper.  "And  now  my  time  has  come." 

"When?     And  where  do  you  go?" 

"To-night,  and  to  join  Carbourd,  if  I  can,  at  the 
Pascal  River.  At  King  Ovi's  Cave,  if  possible." 

The  girl  was  very  pale.  She  turned  and  looked 
at  Angers,  who  still  slept.  "And  then?" 

"And  then,  as  I  have  said  to  you  before,  to 
the  coast,  to  board  the  Parroquet,  which  will  lie 
off  the  island  St.  Jerome  three  days  from  now  to 
carry  us  away  into  freedom.  It  is  all  arranged 
by  our  'Underground  Railway."' 

"And  you  tell  me  all  this — why?"  the  girl  said, 
falteringly. 

"Because  you  said  that  you  would  not  let  a 
hunted  fugitive  starve;  that  you  would  give  us 
horses,  with  which  we  could  travel  the  Brocken 
Path  across  the  hills.  Here  is  the  plan  of  the 
river  that  you  drew;  at  this  point  is  the  King's 
Cave  which  you  discovered,  and  is  known  only  to 
yourself." 

"I  ought  not  to  have  given  it  to  you;  but — " 

"Ah,  you  will  not  repent  of  a  noble  action,  of  a 
great  good  to  me — Marie?" 

"Hush,  monsieur.  Indeed,  you  may  not  speak 
to  me  so.  You  forget.  I  am  sorry  for  you;  I 
think  you  do  not  deserve  this — banishment;  you 
are  unhappy  here;  and  I  told  you  of  the  King's 
Cave — that  was  all." 

17  255 


CUMNER'S    SON 

"Ah  no,  that  is  not  all!  To  be  free,  that  is 
good ;  but  only  that  I  may  be  a  man  again ;  that 
I  may  love  my  art — and  you;  that  I  may  once 
again  be  proud  of  France." 

' '  Monsieur,  I  repeat,  you  must  not  speak  so.  Do 
not  take  advantage  of  my  willingness  to  serve  you." 

"A  thousand  pardons!  but  that  was  in  my 
heart,  and  I  hoped,  I  hoped — " 

"You  must  not  hope.  I  can  only  know  you  as 
M.  Laflamme,  the — " 

"The  political  convict;  ah  yes,  I  know,"  he 
said,  bitterly;  "a  convict  over  whom  the  knout 
is  held;  who  may  at  any  moment  be  shot  down 
like  a  hare;  who  has  but  two  prayers  in  all  the 
world :  to  be  free  in  France  once  more,  and  to  be 
loved  by  one — " 

She  interrupted  him:  "Your  first  prayer  is 
natural." 

4 '  Natural  ?  Do  you  know  what  song  we  sang  in 
the  cages  of  the  ship  that  carried  us  into  this  evil 
exile  here?  Do  you  know  what  brought  tears  to 
the  eyes  of  the  guards  ?  What  made  the  captain 
and  the  sailors  turn  their  heads  away  from  us, 
lest  we  should  see  that  their  faces  were  wet? 
What  rendered  the  soldiers  who  had  fought  us 
in  the  Commune  more  human  for  the  moment? 
It  was  this : 

"  '  Adieu,  patrie! 

L'onde  est  en  furie, 

Adieu,  patrie, 

Azur! 

256 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

Adieu,  maison,  treille  au  fruit  mur, 
Adieu,  les  fruits  d'or  du  vieux  mur! 

Adieu,  patrie, 

Ciel,  fore"t,  prairie; 

Adieu,  patrie, 

Azur.' " 

"Hush,  monsieur!"  the  girl  said,  with  a  swift 
gesture. 

He  looked  and  saw  that  Angers  was  waking. 
"If  I  live,"  he  hurriedly  whispered,  "I  shall  be 
at  the  King's  Cave  to-morrow  night.  And  you — 
the  horses?" 

' '  You  shall  have  my  help  and  the  horses. ' '  Then, 
more  loudly:  "Au  revoir,  monsieur." 

At  that  moment  Madame  Solde  entered  the 
room.  She  acknowledged  Laflamme's  presence 
gravely. 

"It  is  all  done,  madame,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
the  portrait. 

Madame  Solde  bowed  coldly,  but  said:  "It  is 
very  well  done,  monsieur." 

"It  is  my  masterpiece,"  remarked  the  painter, 
pensively.  "Will  you  permit  me  to  say  adieu, 
mesdames?  I  go  to  join  my  amiable  and  atten- 
tive companion,  Roupet  the  guard."  He  bowed 
himself  out. 

Madame  Solde  drew  Marie  aside.  Angers  dis- 
creetly left. 

The  Governor's  wife  drew  the  girl's  head  back 
on  her  shoulder.  "Marie,"  she  said,  "M.  Tryon 
does  not  seem  happy;  cannot  you  change  that?" 

257 


CUMNER'S  SON 

With  quivering  lips  the  girl  laid  her  head  on  the 
Frenchwoman's  breast,  and  said:  "Ah,  do  not 
ask  me  now.  Madame,  I  am  going  home  to- 
day." 

"To-day?    But,  so  soon! — I  wished — " 

"I  must  go  to-day." 

"But  we  had  hoped  you  would  stay  while  M. 
Tryon— " 

"M.  Tryon — will — go  with  me — perhaps." 

"Ah,  my  dear  Marie!"  The  woman  kissed  the 
girl,  and  wondered. 

That  afternoon  Marie  was  riding  across  the 
Winter  Valley  to  her  father's  plantation  at  the 
Pascal  River.  Angers  was  driving  ahead.  Beside 
Marie  rode  Tryon,  silent  and  attentive.  Arrived 
at  the  homestead,  she  said  to  him  in  the  shadow 
of  the  naoulis:  "Hugh  Tryon,  what  would  you 
do  to  prove  the  love  you  say  you  have  for  me?" 

"All  that  a  man  could  do  I  would  do." 

"Can  you  see  the  Semaphore  from  here?" 

"Yes,  there  it  is  clear  against  the  sky — look!" 

But  the  girl  did  not  look.  She  touched  her 
eyelids  with  her  finger-tips,  as  though  they  were 
fevered,  and  then  said:  "Many  have  escaped. 
They  are  searching  for  Carbourd  and — " 

"Yes,  Marie?" 

"And  M.  Laflamme— " 

"Laflamme!"  he  said,  sharply.  Then  noticing 
how  at  his  brusqueness  the  paleness  of  her  face 
changed  to  a  startled  flush  for  an  instant,  his 
generosity  conquered,  and  he  added,  gently : ' '  Well, 

258 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

I  fancied  he  would  try.  But  what  do  you  know 
about  that,  Marie?" 

"He  and  Carbourd  were  friends.  They  were 
chained  together  in  the  galleys,  they  lived — at 
first — together  here.  They  would  risk  life  to 
return  to  France." 

"Tell  me,"  said  he,  "what  do  you  know  of  this  ? 
What  is  it  to  you?" 

"You  wish  to  know  all  before  you  will  do  what 
I  ask." 

"I  will  do  anything  you  ask,  because  you  will 
not  ask  of  me  what  is  unmanly." 

"M.  Laflamme  will  escape  to-night  if  possible, 
and  join  Carbourd  on  the  Pascal  River,  at  a 
safe  spot  that  I  know."  She  told  him  of  the 
cave. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  understand.  You  would  help  him. 
And  I?" 

* '  You  will  help  me.     You  will  ? ' ' 

There  was  a  slight  pause,  and  then  he  said: 
"Yes,  I  will.  But  think  what  this  is  to  an  Eng- 
lishman— to  yourself,  to  be  accomplice  to  the 
escape  of  a  French  prisoner." 

"I  gave  a  promise  to  a  man  whom  I  think 
deserves  it.  He  believed  he  was  a  patriot.  If 
you  were  in  that  case,  and  I  were  a  Frenchwoman, 
I  would  do  the  same  for  you." 

He  smiled  rather  grimly,  and  said:  "If  it  please 
you  that  this  man  escape,  I  shall  hope  he  may, 
and  will  help  you.  .  .  .  Here  comes  your  father." 

"I  could  not  let  my  father  know,"  she  said. 
259 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"He  has  no  sympathy  for  any  one  like  that — for 
any  one  at  all,  I  think,  but  me." 

"Don't  be  down-hearted.  If  you  have  set 
your  heart  on  this,  I  will  try  to  bring  it  about, 
God  knows!  Now  let  us  be  less  gloomy.  Con- 
spirators should  smile.  That  is  the  cue.  Besides, 
the  world  is  bright.  Look  at  the  glow  upon  the 
hills." 

"I  suppose  the  Semaphore  is  glistening  on  the 
Hill  of  Pains;  but  I  cannot  see  it." 

He  did  not  understand  her. 


II 

A  few  hours  after  this  conversation,  Laflamme 
sought  to  accomplish  his  escape.  He  had  lately 
borne  a  letter  from  the  Commandant,  which  per- 
mitted him  to  go  from  point  to  point  outside  the 
peninsula  of  Ducos,  where  the  least  punished  of 
the  political  prisoners  were  kept.  He  depended 
somewhat  on  this  for  his  escape.  Carbourd  had 
been  more  heroic,  but  then  Carbourd  was  des- 
perate. Laflamme  believed  more  in  ability  than 
force.  It  was  ability  and  money  that  had  won 
over  the  captain  of  the  Parroquet,  coupled  with  the 
connivance  of  an  old  member  of  the  Commune, 
who  was  now  a  guard.  This  night  there  was 
increased  alertness,  owing  to  the  escape  of  Car- 
bourd; and  himself,  if  not  more  closely  watched, 
was  at  least  open  to  quick  suspicion  owing  to  his 

260 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

known  friendship  for  Carbourd.  He  strolled  about 
the  fortified  enclosure,  chatting  to  fellow-prisoners, 
and  waiting  for  the  call  which  should  summon 
them  to  the  huts.  Through  years  of  studied 
good-nature  he  had  come  to  be  regarded  as  a 
contented  prisoner.  He  had  no  enemies  save  one 
among  the  guards.  This  man  Maillot  he  had 
offended  by  thwarting  his  continued  ill-treatment 
of  a  young  lad  who  had  been  one  of  the  condemned 
of  the  Commune,  and  whose  hammock,  at  last,  by 
order  of  the  Commandant,  was  slung  in  Laflamme's 
hut.  For  this  kindness  and  interposition  the  lad 
was  grateful  and  devoted.  He  had  been  set  to 
labor  in  the  nickel-mines;  but  that  came  near  to 
killing  him,  and  again  through  Laflamme's  plead- 
ing he  had  been  made  a  prisoner  of  the  first  class, 
and  so  relieved  of  all  heavy  tasks.  Not  even  he 
suspected  the  immediate  relations  of  Laflamme 
and  Carbourd ;  nor  that  Laflamme  was  preparing 
for  escape. 

As  Laflamme  waited  for  the  summons  to  huts, 
a  squad  of  prisoners  went  clanking  by  him, 
manacled.  They  had  come  from  road-making. 
These  never  heard  from  wife  nor  child,  nor  held 
any  commerce  with  the  outside  world,  nor  had 
any  speech  with  each  other,  save  by  a  silent 
gesture-language  which  eluded  the  vigilance  of 
the  guards.  As  the  men  passed,  Laflamme  looked 
at  them  steadily.  They  knew  him  well.  Some 
of  them  remembered  his  speeches  at  the  Place 
Vendome.  They  bore  him  no  ill-will  that  he  did 

261 


CUMNER'S  SON 

not  suffer  as  they.  He  made  a  swift  sign  to  a 
prisoner  near  the  rear  of  the  column.  The  man 
smiled,  but  gave  no  answering  token.  This  was 
part  of  the  unspoken  vocabulary,  and,  in  this 
instance,  conveyed  the  two  words:  /  escape. 

A  couple  of  hours  later  Laflamme  rose  from  a 
hammock  in  his  hut,  and  leaned  over  the  young 
lad,  who  was  sleeping.  He  touched  him  gently. 

The  lad  waked.     "Yes,  yes,  monsieur." 

"I  am  going  away,  my  friend." 

"To  escape,  like  Carbourd?" 

"Yes,  I  hope,  like  Carbourd." 

"May  I  not  go  also,  monsieur?  I  am  not 
afraid." 

"No,  lad.  If  there  must  be  death,  one  is  enough. 
You  must  stay.  Good-bye." 

"You  will  see  my  mother?  She  is  old,  and  she 
grieves." 

"Yes,  I  will  see  your  mother.  And  more:  you 
shall  be  free.  I  will  see  to  that.  Be  patient, 
little  comrade.  Nay,  nay,  hush!  .  .  .  No  thanks. 
Adieu!"  He  put  his  hands  on  the  lad's  shoulder 
and  kissed  his  forehead. 

"I  wish  I  had  died  at  the  Barricades.  But, 
yes,  I  will  be  brave — be  sure  of  that." 

"You  shall  not  die — you  shall  live  in  France, 
which  is  better.  Once  more,  adieu!"  Laflamme 
passed  out. 

It  was  raining.  He  knew  that  if  he  could  sat- 
isfy the  first  sentinel  he  should  stand  a  better 
chance  of  escape,  since  he  had  had  so  much  free- 

262 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

dom  of  late;  and  to  be  passed  by  one  would  help 
with  others.  He  went  softly,  but  he  was  soon 
challenged. 

' '  Halt !     Who  goes  there  ?" 

"Condemned  of  the  Commune — by  order." 

"Whose  order?" 

"That  of  the  Commandant." 

"Advance  order." 

The  sentinel  knew  him.  "Ah,  Laflamme,"  he 
said,  and  raised  the  point  of  his  bayonet.  The 
paper  was  produced.  It  did  not  entitle  him  to 
go  about  at  night,  and  certainly  not  beyond  the 
enclosure  without  a  guard — it  was  insufficient. 
In  unfolding  the  paper  Laflamme  purposely 
dropped  it  in  the  mud.  He  hastily  picked  it  up, 
and,  in  doing  so,  smeared  it.  He  wiped  it,  leaving 
the  signature  comparatively  plain — nothing  else. 

"Well,"  said  the  sentinel,  "the  signature  is 
right.  Where  do  you  go?" 

"To  Government  House." 

"I  do  not  know  that  I  should  let  you  pass. 
But — well,  look  out  that  the  next  sentinel  doesn't 
bayonet  you.  You  came  on  me  suddenly." 

The  next  sentinel  was  a  Kanaka.  The  previ- 
ous formula  was  repeated.  The  Kanaka  exam- 
ined the  paper  long,  and  then  said:  "You  can- 
not pass." 

"But  the  other  sentinel  passed  me.  Would 
you  get  him  into  trouble?" 

The  Kanaka  frowned,  hesitated,  then  said: 
"That  is  another  matter.  Well,  pass." 

263 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Twice  more  the  same  formula  and  arguments 
were  used.  At  last  he  heard  a  voice  in  challenge 
that  he  knew.  It  was  that  of  Maillot.  This  was 
a  more  difficult  game.  His  order  was  taken  with 
a  malicious  sneer  by  the  sentinel.  At  that  instant 
Laflamme  threw  his  arms  swiftly  round  the  other, 
clapped  a  hand  on  his  mouth,  and,  with  a  dexter- 
ous twist  of  leg,  threw  him  backward,  till  it  seemed 
as  if  the  spine  of  the  soldier  must  break.  It  was 
impossible  to  struggle  against  this  trick  of  wrest- 
ling, which  Laflamme  had  learned  from  a  famous 
Cornish  wrestler,  in  a  summer  spent  on  the  Eng- 
lish coast. 

"If  you  shout  or  speak  I  will  kill  you!"  he  said 
to  Maillot,  and  then  dropped  him  heavily  on  the 
ground,  where  he  lay  senseless.  Laflamme  stooped 
down  and  felt  his  heart.  "Alive!"  he  said,  then 
seized  the  rifle  and  plunged  into  the  woods.  The 
moon  at  that  moment  broke  through  the  clouds, 
and  he  saw  the  Semaphore  like  a  ghost  pointing 
toward  Pascal  River.  He  waved  his  hand  tow- 
ard his  old  prison,  and  sped  away. 

But  others  were  thinking  of  the  Semaphore  at 
this  moment,  others  saw  it  indistinct,  yet  melan- 
choly, in  the  moonlight.  The  Governor  and  his 
wife  saw  it,  and  Madame  Solde  said:  "Alfred,  I 
shall  be  glad  when  I  shall  see  that  no  more." 

"You  have  too  much  feeling." 

"I  suppose  Marie  makes  me  think  more  of  it 
to-day.  She  wept  this  morning  over  all  this 
misery  and  punishment." 

264 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

"You  think  that.  Well,  perhaps  something 
more — " 

"What  more?" 

"Laflamme." 

"No,  no,  it  is  impossible!" 

"Indeed  it  is  as  I  say.  My  wife,  you  are  blind. 
I  chanced  to  see  him  with  her  yesterday.  I 
should  have  prevented  him  coming  to-day,  but 
I  knew  it  was  his  last  day  with  the  portrait,  and 
that  all  should  end  here." 

"We  have  done  wrong  in  this — the  poor  child! 
Besides,  she  has,  I  fear,  another  sorrow  coming. 
It  showed  itself  to  me  to-day  for  the  first  time." 
Then  she  whispered  to  him,  and  he  started  and 
sighed,  and  said  at  last: 

"But  it  must  be  saved — by !  it  shall  be 

saved!" 

And  at  that  moment  Marie  Wyndham  was 
standing  in  the  open  window  of  the  library  of 
Pascal  House.  She  had  been  thinking  of  her 
recent  visit  to  the  King's  Cave,  where  she  had 
left  food,  and  of  the  fact  that  Carbourd  was  not 
there.  She  raised  her  face  toward  the  moon  and 
sighed.  She  was  thinking  of  something  else.  She 
was  not  merely  sentimental,  for  she  said,  as  if  she 
had  heard  the  words  of  the  Governor  and  Madame 
Solde:  "Oh!  if  it  could  be  saved!" 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  shrubbery  near  her. 
She  turned  toward  the  sound.  A  man  came 
quickly  toward  her.  "I  am  Carbourd,"  he  said; 
"I  could  not  find  the  way  to  the  Cave.  They 

265 


CUMNER'S  SON 

were  after  me.  They  have  tracked  me.  Tell  me 
quick  how  to  go." 

She  swiftly  gave  him  directions,  and  he  darted 
away.  Again  there  was  a  rustle  in  the  leaves, 
and  a  man  stepped  forth.  Something  glistened 
in  his  hands — a  rifle,  though  she  could  not  see  it 
plainly.  It  was  levelled  at  the  flying  figure  of 
Carbourd.  There  was  a  report.  Marie  started 
forward  with  her  hands  on  her  temples  and  a 
sharp  cry.  She  started  forward — into  absolute 
darkness.  There  was  a  man's  footsteps  going 
swiftly  by  her.  Why  was  it  so  dark?  She 
stretched  out  her  hands  with  a  moan. 

"Oh,  mother!  oh,  mother!  I  am  blind!"  she 
cried. 

But  her  mother  was  sleeping  unresponsive  be- 
yond the  dark — beyond  all  dark.  It  was,  per- 
haps, natural  that  she  should  cry  to  the  dead  and 
not  to  the  living. 

Marie  was  blind.  She  had  known  it  was  com- 
ing, and  it  had  tried  her,  as  it  would  have  tried 
any  of  the  race  of  women.  She  had,  when  she 
needed  it  most,  put  love  from  her,  and  would  not 
let  her  own  heart  speak,  even  to  herself.  She  had 
sought  to  help  one  who  loved  her,  and  to  fully 
prove  the  other — though  the  proving,  she  knew, 
was  not  necessary — before  the  darkness  came. 
But  here  it  was  suddenly  sent  upon  her  by  the 
shock  of  a  rifle  shot.  It  would  have  sent  a  shud- 
der to  a  stronger  heart  than  hers — that,  in  reply 
to  her  call  on  her  dead  mother,  there  came  from 

266 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

the  trees  the  shrill  laugh  of  the  mopoke — the  sar- 
donic bird  of  the  South. 

As  she  stood  there,  with  this  tragedy  enveloping 
her,  the  dull  boom  of  a  cannon  came  across  the 
valley.  "From  Ducos,"  she  said.  "M.  Laflamme 
has  escaped.  God  help  us  all!"  And  she  turned 
and  groped  her  way  into  the  room  she  had  left. 

She  felt  for  a  chair  and  sat  down.  She  must 
think  of  what  she  now  was.  She  wondered  if 
Carbourd  was  killed.  She  listened  and  thought 
not,  since  there  was  no  sound  without.  But  she 
knew  that  the  house  would  be  roused.  She 
bowed  her  head  in  her  hands.  Surely  she  might 
weep  a  little  for  herself — she  who  had  been  so 
troubled  for  others.  It  is  strange,  but  she 
thought  of  her  flowers  and  birds,  and  wondered 
how  she  should  tend  them;  of  her  own  room 
which  faced  the  north — the  English  north  that 
she  loved  so  well;  of  her  horse,  and  marvelled  if 
he  would  know  that  she  could  not  see  him;  and, 
lastly,  of  a  widening  horizon  of  pain,  spread 
before  the  eyes  of  her  soul,  in  which  her  father 
and  another  moved. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  sat  there  for  hours ; 
it  was,  in  reality,  minutes  only.  A  firm  step  and 
the  opening  of  a  door  roused  her.  She  did  not 
turn  her  head — what  need  ?  She  knew  the  step. 
There  was  almost  a  touch  of  ironical  smiling  at 
her  lips  as  she  thought  how  she  must  hear  and 
feel  things  only  in  the  future.  A  voice  said: 
"Marie,  are  you  here?" 

267 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"I  am  here." 

"I'll  strike  a  match  so  that  you  can  see  I'm  not 
a  bushranger.  There  has  been  shooting  in  the 
grounds.  Did  you  hear  it?" 

"Yes.     A  soldier  firing  at  Carbourd." 

"You  saw  him?" 

"Yes.  He  could  not  find  the  Cave.  I  directed 
him.  Immediately  after  he  was  fired  upon." 

"He  can't  have  been  hit.  There  are  no 
signs  of  him.  There,  that's  lighter  and  better, 
isn't  it?" 

"I  do  not  know." 

She  had  risen,  but  she  did  not  turn  toward  him. 
He  came  nearer  to  her.  The  enigmatical  tone 
struck  him  strangely,  but  he  could  find  nothing 
less  common-place  to  say  than  ' '  You  don't  prefer 
the  exaggerated  gloaming,  do  you?" 

"No,  I  do  not  prefer  the  gloaming,  but  why 
should  not  one  be  patient?" 

"Be  patient!"  he  repeated,  and  came  nearer 
still.  "Are  you  hurt  or  angry?" 

"I  am  hurt,  but  not  angry." 

"What  have  I  done?— or  is  it  I?" 

"It  is  not  you.  You  are  very  good.  It  is 
nobody  but  God.  I  am  hurt,  because  He  is  angry, 
perhaps." 

"Tell  me  what  is  the  matter.  Look  at  me." 
He  faced  her  now — faced  her  eyes,  looking  blindly 
straight  before  her. 

"Hugh,"  she  said,  and  she  put  her  hand  out 
slightly,  not  exactly  to  him,  but  as  if  to  protect 

268 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

him  from  the  blow  which  she  herself  must  deal :  "I 
am  looking  at  you  now." 

"Yes,  yes,  but  so  strangely,  and  not  in  my 
eyes." 

"I  cannot  look  into  your  eyes,  because,  Hugh, 
I  am  blind."  Her  hand  went  farther  out  toward 
him. 

He  took  it  silently  and  pressed  it  to  his  bosom 
as  he  saw  that  she  spoke  true,  and  the  shadow 
of  the  thing  fell  on  him.  The  hand  held  to  his 
breast  felt  how  he  was  trembling  from  the  shock. 

"Sit  down,  Hugh,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  tell 
you  all;  but  do  not  hold  my  hand  so,  or  I  cannot." 

Sitting  there  face  to  face,  with  deep  furrows 
growing  in  his  countenance,  and  a  quiet  sorrow 
spreading  upon  her  cheek  and  forehead,  she  told 
the  story  how,  since  her  childhood,  her  sight  had 
played  her  false  now  and  then,  and  within  the 
past  month  had  grown  steadily  uncertain.  "And 
now,"  she  said  at  last,  "I  am  blind.  I  think  I 
should  like  to  tell  my  father — if  you  please.  Then 
when  I  have  seen  him  and  poor  Angers,  if  you 
will  come  again!  There  is  work  to  be  done.  I 
hoped  it  would  be  finished  before  this  came; 
but — there,  good  friend,  go;  I  will  sit  here 
quietly." 

She  could  not  see  his  face,  but  she  heard  him 
say,  "My  love,  my  love,"  very  softly,  as  he  rose 
to  go ;  and  she  smiled  sadly  to  herself.  She  folded 
her  hands  in  her  lap,  and  thought,  not  bitterly, 
not  listlessly,  but  deeply.  She  wanted  to  consider 

269 


CUMNER'S  SON 

all  cheerfully  now;  she  tried  to  do  so.  She  was 
musing  among  those  flying  perceptions,  those 
nebulous  facts  of  a  new  life,  experienced  for  the 
first  time;  she  was  now  not  herself  as  she  had 
been;  another  woman  was  born;  and  she  was 
feeling  carefully  along  the  unfamiliar  paths  which 
she  must  tread.  She  was  not  glad  that  these 
words  ran  through  her  mind  continuously  at  first : 

"  A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself,  and  of 
the  shadow  of  death  without  any  order,  and  where 
the  light  is  darkness." 

Her  brave  nature  rose  against  the  moody  spirit 
which  sought  to  take  possession  of  her,  and  she 
cried  out  in  her  heart,  valiantly:  "But  there  is 
order,  there  is  order.  I  shall  feel  things  as  they 
ought  to  be.  I  think  I  could  tell  now  what  was 
true  and  what  was  false  in  man  or  woman;  it 
would  be  in  their  presence,  not  in  their  faces." 

She  stopped  speaking.  She  heard  footsteps. 
Her  father  entered.  Hugh  Tryon  had  done  his 
task  gently,  but  the  old  planter,  selfish  and  hard 
as  he  was,  loved  his  daughter;  and  the  meeting 
was  bitter  for  him.  The  prop  of  his  pride  seemed 
shaken  beyond  recovery.  But  the  girl's  calm 
comforted  them  all,  and  poignancy  became  dull 
pain.  Before  parting  for  the  night,  Marie  said  to 
Hugh:  "This  is  what  I  wish  you  to  do  for  me:  to 
bring  over  two  of  your  horses  to  Point  Assumption 
on  the  river.  There  is  a  glen  beyond  that,  as  you 
know,  and  from  it  runs  the  steep  and  dangerous 
Brocken  Path  across  the  hills.  I  wish  you  to 

270 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

wait  there  until  M.  Laflamme  and  Carbourd 
come  by  the  river — that  is  their  only  chance. 
If  they  get  across  the  hills  they  can  easily  reach 
the  sea.  I  know  that  two  of  your  horses  have 
been  over  the  path;  they  are  sure-footed;  they 
would  know  it  in  the  night.  Is  it  not  so?" 

"It  is  so.  There  are  not  a  dozen  horses  in  the 
colony  that  could  be  trusted  on  it  at  night,  but 
mine  are  safe.  I  shall  do  all  you  wish." 

She  put  out  both  her  hands  and  felt  for  his  shoul- 
ders, and  let  them  rest  there  for  a  moment,  saying: 
"I  ask  much,  and  I  can  give  no  reward,  except 
the  gratitude  of  one  who  would  rather  die  than 
break  a  promise.  It  isn't  much,  but  it  is  all  that 
is  worth  your  having.  Good-night.  Good-bye." 

"Good-night.  Good-bye,"  he  gently  replied; 
but  he  said  something  beneath  his  breath  that 
sounded  worth  the  hearing. 

The  next  morning  while  her  father  was  gone  to 
consult  the  chief  army  surgeon  at  Noumea,  Marie 
strolled  with  Angers  in  the  grounds.  At  length 
she  said:  "Angers,  take  me  to  the  river,  and 
then  on  down,  until  we  come  to  the  high  banks." 
With  her  hand  on  Angers'  arm,  and  in  her  face 
that  passive  gentleness  which  grows  so  sweetly 
from  sightless  eyes  till  it  covers  all  the  face,  they 
passed  slowly  toward  the  river.  When  they  came 
to  the  higher  banks  covered  with  dense  scrub, 
Angers  paused,  and  told  Marie  where  they  were. 

"Find   me   the   she-oak   tree,"   the  girl   said; 
"there  is  only  one,  you  know." 
is  271 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"Here  it  is,  my  dear.  There,  your  hand  is  on 
it  now." 

"Thank  you.  Wait  here,  Angers,  I  shall  be 
back  presently." 

"But  oh,  my  dear—" 

"Please  do  as  I  say,  Angers,  and  do  not  worry," 
The  girl  pushed  aside  some  bushes,  and  was  lost 
to  view.  She  pressed  along  vigilantly  by  a  de- 
scending path,  until  her  feet  touched  rocky 
ground.  She  nodded  to  herself,  then  creeping 
between  two  bits  of  jutting  rock  at  her  right, 
immediately  stood  at  the  entrance  to  a  cave,  hid- 
den completely  from  the  river  and  from  the  banks 
above.  At  the  entrance,  for  which  she  felt,  she 
paused  and  said  aloud:  "Is  there  any  one  here?" 
Something  clicked  far  within  the  cave.  It  sound- 
ed like  a  rifle.  Then  stealthy  steps  were  heard, 
and  a  voice  said: 

"Ah,  mademoiselle!" 

"YouareCarbourd?" 

"As  you  see,  mademoiselle." 

"You  escaped  safely,  then,  from  the  rifle-shot? 
Where  is  the  soldier?" 

"He  fell  into  the  river.     He  was  drowned." 

"You  are  telling  me  truth?" 

"Yes,  he  stumbled  in  and  sank — on  my  soul!" 

"You  did  not  try  to  save  him?" 

"He  lied  and  got  me  six  months  in  irons  once; 
he  called  down  on  my  back  one  hundred  and  fifty 
lashes  a  year  ago ;  he  had  me  kept  on  bread  and 
water,  and  degraded  to  the  fourth  class,  where  I 

272 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

could  never  hear  from  my  wife  and  children — 
never  write  to  them.  I  lost  one  eye  in  the  quar- 
ries because  he  made  me  stand  too  near  a  lighted 
fuse—" 

' '  Poor  man,  poor  man !"  she  said.  ' '  You  found 
the  food  I  left  here?" 

"Yes,  God  bless  you!  And  my  wife  and  chil- 
dren will  bless  you,  too,  if  I  see  France  again." 

"You  know  where  the  boat  is?" 

"I  know,  mademoiselle." 

"When  you  reach  Point  Assumption  you  will 
find  horses  there  to  take  you  across  the  Brocken 
Path.  M.  Laflamme  knows.  I  hope  that  you  will 
both  escape — that  you  will  be  happy  in  France 
with  your  wife  and  children." 

"You  will  not  come  here  again  ?" 

"No.  If  M.  Laflamme  should  not  arrive,  and 
you  should  go  alone,  leave  one  pair  of  oars;  then 
I  shall  know.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  mademoiselle.  A  thousand  times 
I  will  pray  for  you.  Ah,  mon  Dieu!  take  care! — 
you  are  on  the  edge  of  the  great  tomb." 

She  stood  perfectly  still.  At  her  feet  was  a 
dark  excavation  wheie  was  the  skeleton  of  Ovi 
the  King.  This  was  the  hidden  burial-place  of  the 
modern  Hiawatha  of  these  savage  islands,  un- 
known even  to  the  natives  themselves,  and  kept 
secret  with  a  half-superstitious  reverence  by  this 
girl,  who  had  discovered  it  a  few  months  before. 

"I  had  forgotten,"  she  said.  "Please  take  my 
hand  and  set  me  right  at  the  entrance." 

273 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"Your  hand,  mademoiselle?  Mine  is  so — !  It 
is  not  dark." 

"I  am  blind  now." 

"Blind— blind!  Oh,  the  pitiful  thing!  Since 
when,  mademoiselle?" 

"Since  the  soldier  fired  on  you — the  shock  ..." 

The  convict  knelt  at  her  feet.  "Ah,  made- 
moiselle, you  are  a  good  angel.  I  shall  die  of 
grief.  To  think — for  such  as  me!" 

"You  will  live  to  love  your  wife  and  children. 
This  is  the  will  of  God  with  me.  Am  I  in  the 
path  now?  Ah,  thank  you." 

"But,  M.  Laflamme — this  will  be  a  great  sorrow 
to  him." 

Twice  she  seemed  about  to  speak,  but  nothing 
came  save  good-bye.  Then  she  crept  cautiously 
away  among  the  bushes  and  along  the  narrow 
path,  the  eyes  of  the  convict  following  her.  She 
had  done  a  deed  which,  she  understood,  the  world 
would  blame  her  for  if  it  knew,  would  call  culpable 
or  foolishly  heroic;  but  she  smiled,  because  she 
understood  also  that  she  had  done  that  which  her 
own  conscience  and  heart  approved,  and  she  was 
content. 

At  this  time  Laflamme  was  stealing  watchfully 
through  the  tropical  scrub,  where  hanging  vines 
tore  his  hands,  and  the  sickening  perfume  of 
jungle  flowers  overcame  him  more  than  the  hard 
journey  which  he  had  undertaken  during  the  past 
twelve  hours. 

Several  times  he  had  been  within  voice  of  his 
274 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

pursuers,  and  once  a  Kanaka  scout  passed  close 
to  him.  He  had  had  nothing  to  eat,  he  had  had 
no  sleep,  he  suffered  from  a  wound  in  his  neck 
caused  by  the  broken  protruding  branch  of  a 
tree;  but  he  had  courage,  and  he  was  struggling 
for  liberty — a  tolerably  sweet  thing  when  one  has 
it  not.  He  found  the  Cave  at  last,  and  with  far 
greater  ease  than  Carbourd  had  done,  because  he 
knew  the  ground  better,  and  his  instinct  was 
keener.  His  greeting  to  Carbourd  was  non- 
chalantly cordial: 

"Well,  you  see,  comrade,  King  Ovi's  Cave  is  a 
reality." 

"So." 

"I  saw  the  boat.  The  horses?  What  do  you 
know?" 

"They  will  be  at  Point  Assumption  to-night." 

"Then  we  go  to-night.  We  shall  have  to  run 
the  chances  of  rifles  along  the  shore  at  a  range 
something  short,  but  we  have  done  that  before, 
at  the  Barricades,  eh,  Carbourd?" 

"At  the  Barricades.  It  is  a  pity  that  we  can- 
not take  Citizen  Louise  Michel  with  us." 

"Her  time  will  come." 

"She  has  no  children  crying  and  starving  at 
home  like — " 

"Like  yours,  Carbourd,  like  yours.  Well,  I 
am  starving  here.  Give  me  something  to  eat.  .  .  . 
Ah,  that  is  good — excellent!  What  more  can  we 
want  but  freedom!  Till  the  darkness  of  tyranny 
be  overpast — be  overpast,  eh?" 

275 


CUMNER'S  SON 

This  speech  brought  another  weighty  matter 
to  Carbourd's  mind.  He  said: 

"I  do  not  wish  to  distress  you,  but — 

"Now,  Carbourd,  what  is  the  matter?  Faugh! 
this  place  smells  musty.  What's  that — a  tomb? 
Speak  out,  Citizen  Carbourd." 

"It  is  this:  Mademoiselle  Wyndham  is  blind." 
Carbourd  told  the  story  with  a  great  anxiety  in 
his  words. 

"The  poor  mademoiselle — is  it  so  ?  A  thousand 
pities!  So  kind,  so  young,  so  beautiful.  Ah,  I 
am  distressed,  and  I  finished  her  portrait  yester- 
day! Yes,  I  remember  her  eyes  looked  too  bright, 
and  then  again  too  dull:  but  I  thought  that  it 
was  excitement,  and  so — that!" 

Laflamme's  regret  was  real  enough  up  to  a 
certain  point,  but,  in  sincerity  and  value,  it  was 
chasms  below  that  of  Hugh  Try  on,  who,  even 
now,  was  getting  two  horses  ready  to  give  the 
Frenchmen  their  chance. 

After  a  pause,  Laflamme  said:  "She  will  not 
come  here  again,  Carbourd?  No?  Ah,  well, 
perhaps  it  is  better  so ;  but  I  should  have  liked  to 
speak  my  thanks  to  her." 

That  night  Marie  sat  by  the  window  of  the 
sitting-room,  with  the  light  burning,  and  Angers 
asleep  in  a  chair  beside  her — sat  till  long  after 
midnight,  in  the  thought  that  Laflamme,  if  he 
had  reached  the  Cave,  would,  perhaps,  dare 
something  to  see  her  and  bid  her  good-bye.  She 
would,  of  course,  have  told  him  not  to  come,  but 

276 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

he  was  chivalrous,  and  then  her  blindness  would 
touch  him.  Yet  as  the  hours  went  by  the  thought 
came:  Was  he — was  he  so  chivalrous?  Was  he 
altogether  true  ?  .  .  .  He  did  not  come.  The  next 
morning  Angers  took  her  to  where  the  boat  had 
been,  but  it  was  gone,  and  no  oars  were  left 
behind.  So,  both  had  sought  escape  in  it. 

She  went  to  the  Cave.  She  took  Angers  with 
her  now.  Upon  the  wall  a  paper  was  found.  It 
was  a  note  from  M.  Laflamme.  She  asked  Angers 
to  give  it  to  her  without  reading  it.  She  put  it 
in  her  pocket  and  kept  it  there  until  she  should 
see  Hugh  Tryon.  He  should  read  it  to  her.  She 
said  to  herself,  as  she  felt  the  letter  in  her  pocket : 
"He  loved  me.  It  was  the  least  that  I  could  do. 
I  am  so  glad."  Yet  she  was  not  altogether  glad 
either,  and  disturbing  thoughts  crossed  the  par- 
allels of  her  pleasure. 

The  Governor  and  Madame  Solde  first  brought 
news  of  the  complete  escape  of  the  prisoners. 
The  two  had  fled  through  the  hills  by  the  Brocken 
Path,  and  though  pursued  after  crossing,  had 
reached  the  coast,  and  were  taken  aboard  the 
Parroquet,  which  sailed  away  toward  Australia. 
It  is  probable  that  Marie's  visitors  had  their 
suspicions  regarding  the  escape,  but  they  said 
nothing,  and  did  not  make  her  uncomfortable. 
Just  now  they  were  most  concerned  for  her  bitter 
misfortune.  Madame  Solde  said  to  her:  "My 
poor  Marie — does  it  feel  so  dreadful,  so  dark?" 

"No,  madame,  it  is  not  so  bad.  There  are  so 
277 


CUMNER'S  SON 

many  things  which  one  does  not  wish  to  see,  and 
one  is  spared  the  pain." 

"But  you  will  see  again.  When  you  go  to 
England,  to  great  physicians  there." 

"Then  I  should  have  three  lives,  madame: 
when  I  could  see,  when  sight  died,  and  when  sight 
was  born  again.  How  wise  I  should  be!" 

They  left  her  sadly,  and  after  a  time  she  heard 
footsteps  that  she  knew.  She  came  forward  and 
greeted  Try  on. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  "all's  well  with  them,  I  know; 
and  you  were  so  good." 

"They  are  safe  upon  the  seas,"  he  gently 
replied,  and  he  kissed  her  hand. 

"Now  you  will  read  this  letter  for  me.  M. 
Laflamme  left  it  behind  in  the  Cave." 

With  a  pang  he  took  it,  and  read  thus : 

"DEAR  FRIEND, — My  grief  for  your  misfortune 
is  inexpressible.  If  it  were  possible  I  should  say 
so  in  person,  but  there  is  danger,  and  we  must 
fly  at  once.  You  shall  hear  from  me  in  full 
gratitude  when  I  am  in  safety.  I  owe  you  so 
many  thanks,  as  I  give  you  so  much  of  devotion. 
But  there  is  the  future  for  all.  Mademoiselle,  I 
kiss  your  hand. 

"Always  yours, 

"RIVE  LAFLAMME." 

"Hugh!"  she  said,  sadly,  when  he  had  finished, 
"I  seem  to  have  new  knowledge  of  things,  now 

278 


A  FRIEND  OF  THE  COMMUNE 

that  I  am  blind.  I  think  this  letter  is  not  alto- 
gether real.  You  see,  that  was  his  way  of  saying 
— good-bye." 

What  Hugh  Tryon  thought,  he  did  not  say.  He 
had  met  the  Governor  on  his  way  to  Pascal  House, 
and  had  learned  some  things  which  were  not  for 
her  to  know. 

She  continued :  "  I  could  not  bear  that  one  who 
was  innocent  of  any  real  crime,  who  was  a  great 
artist,  and  who  believed  himself  a  patriot,  should 
suffer  so  here.  When  he  asked  me,  I  helped  him. 
Yet  I  suppose  I  was  selfish,  wasn't  I  ?  It  was 
because  he  loved  me." 

Hugh  spoke  breathlessly:  "And  because — you 
loved  him,  Marie?" 

Her  head  was  lifted  quickly,  as  though  she  saw, 
and  was  looking  him  in  the  eyes.  ' '  Oh  no !  oh  no !" 
she  cried,  "I  never  loved  him!  I  was  sorry  for 
him — that  was  all." 

"Marie,  Marie,"  he  said, gently,  while  she  shook 
her  head  a  little  pitifully,  "did  you,  then,  love 
any  one  else?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  space  and  then  she  said: 
"Yes.  Oh,  Hugh,  I  am  so  sorry,  for  your  sake, 
that  I  am  blind,  and  cannot  marry  you." 

"But,  my  darling,  you  shall  not  always  be 
blind,  you  shall  see  again.  And  you  shall  marry 
me  also.  As  though — life  of  my  life! — as  though 
one's  love  could  live  but  by  the  sight  of  the  eyes! " 

' '  My  poor  Hugh !  But,  blind,  I  could  not  marry 
you.  It  would  not  be  just  to  you." 

279 


CUMNER'S  SON 

He  smiled  with  a  happy,  hopeful  determination. 
"But  if  you  should  see  again?" 

"Oh,  then.  .  .  ." 

She  married  him,  and  in  time  her  sight  returned, 
though  not  completely.  Tryon  never  told  her, 
as  the  Governor  had  told  him,  that  Rive  Laflamme, 
when  a  prisoner  in  New  Caledonia,  had  a  wife  in 
Paris:  and  he  is  man  enough  to  hope  that  she 
may  never  know. 

But  to  this  hour  he  has  a  profound  regret  that 
duels  are  not  in  vogue  among  Englishmen. 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE   SOUTH 


WHEN  Blake  Shorland  stepped  from  the  steamer 
Belle  Sauvage  upon  the  quay  at  Noumea,  he  pro- 
ceeded, with  the  alertness  of  the  trained  news- 
paper correspondent,  to  take  his  bearings.  So 
this  was  New  Caledonia,  the  home  of  outcast, 
criminal  France,  the  recent  refuge  of  Communist 
exiles,  of  Rochefort,  Louise  Michel,  Felix  Rastoul, 
and  the  rest!  Over  there  to  the  left  was  He  Nou, 
the  convict  prison;  on  the  hill  was  the  Governor's 
residence ;  below,  the  Government  establishments 
with  their  red-tiled  roofs;  and  hidden  away  in  a 
luxuriance  of  tropical  vegetation  lay  the  houses 
of  the  citizens.  He  stroked  his  black  mustache 
thoughtfully  for  a  moment,  and  put  his  hand  to 
his  pocket  to  see  that  his  letters  of  introduction 
from  the  French  Consul  at  Sydney  to  Governor 
Rap" .- 1  and  his  journalistic  credentials  were  there. 
Then  he  remembered  the  advice  of  the  captain  of 
the  Belle  Sauvage  as  to  the  best  hotel,  and  started 
toward  it.  He  had  not  been  shown  the  way,  but 
his  instincts  directed  him.  He  knew  where  it 
ought  to  be,  according  to  the  outlines  of  the  place. 

281 


CUMNER'S  SON 

It  proved  to  be  where  he  thought,  and,  having 
engaged  rooms,  sent  for  his  luggage,  and  refreshed 
himself,  he  set  out  to  explore  the  town.  His 
prudent  mind  told  him  that  he  ought  to  proceed 
at  once  to  Governor  Rapont  and  present  his  let- 
ters of  commendation,  for  he  was  in  a  country 
where  feeling  was  running  high  against  English 
interference  with  the  deportation  of  French  con- 
victs to  New  Caledonia,  and  the  intention  of 
France  to  annex  the  New  Hebrides.  But  he 
knew  also  that  so  soon  as  these  letters  were  pre- 
sented, his  freedom  of  action  would  be  restricted, 
either  by  a  courtesy  which  would  be  so  constant 
as  to  become  surveillance,  or  by  an  injunction 
having  no  such  gloss.  He  had  come  to  study 
French  government  in  New  Caledonia,  to  gauge 
the  extent  of  the  menace  that  the  convict  question 
bore  toward  Australia,  and  to  tell  his  tale  to  Aus- 
tralia, and  to  such  other  countries  as  would  listen. 
The  task  was  not  pleasant,  and  it  had  its  dangers, 
too,  of  a  certain  kind.  But  Shorland  had  had 
difficulty  and  peril  often  in  his  life,  and  he  bor- 
rowed no  trouble.  Proceeding  along  the  Rue  de 
1'Alma,  and  listening  to  the  babble  of  French 
voices  round  him,  he  suddenly  paused  abstracted- 
ly, and  said  to  himself:  "Somehow  it  brings  back 
Paris  to  me,  and  that  last  night  there,  when  I 
bade  Freeman  good-bye.  Poor  old  boy!  I'm  glad 
better  days  are  coming  for  him — sure  to  be  better 
if  he  marries  Clare.  Why  didn't  he  do  it  seven 
years  ago,  and  save  all  that  other  horrible  business  ?" 

282 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Then  he  moved  on,  noticing  that  he  was  the 
object  of  remark,  but  as  it  was  daytime  and  in 
the  street  he  felt  himself  safe.  Glancing  up  at  a 
doorway  he  saw  a  familiar  Paris  name — Cafe 
Voisin.  This  was  interesting.  It  was  in  the  Cafe 
Voisin  that  he  had  touched  a  farewell  glass  with 
Luke  Freeman,  the  one  bosom  friend  of  his  life. 
He  entered  this  Cafe  Voisin  with  the  thought  of 
how  vague  would  be  the  society  which  he  would 
meet  in  such  a  reproduction  of  a  famous  Parisian 
haunt.  He  thought  of  a  cafe  chantant  at  Port 
Said,  and  said  to  himself:  "It  can't  be  worse  than 
that."  He  was  right  then.  The  world  had  no 
shambles  of  ghastly  frivolity  and  debauchery  like 
those  of  Port  Said. 

The  Cafe  Voisin  had  many  visitors,  and  Shor- 
land  saw  at  a  glance  who  they  were — liberes,  or 
ticket-of -leave  men,  a  drunken  soldier  or  two,  and 
a  few  of  that  class  who  with  an  army  are  called 
camp-followers,  in  an  English  town  roughs,  in  a 
French  convict  settlement  recidivistes.  He  felt 
at  once  that  he  had  entered  upon  a  trying  experi- 
ence ;  but  he  also  felt  that  the  luck  would  be  with 
him,  as  it  had  been  with  him  so  many  times  these 
late  years.  He  sat  down  at  a  small  table,  and 
called  to  a  haggard  waitress  near  to  bring  him  a 
cup  of  coffee.  He  then  saw  that  there  was  an- 
other woman  in  the  room.  Leaning  with  her  el- 
bows on  the  bar  and  her  chin  in  her  hands,  she 
fixed  her  eyes  on  him  as  he  opened  and  made  a 
pretence  of  reading  La  Nouvelle  Catidonie.  Look- 

283 


CUMNER'S  SON 

ing  up,  he  met  her  eyes  again ;  there  was  hatred  in 
them  if  ever  he  saw  it,  or  what  might  be  called 
constitutional  diablerie.  He  felt  that  this  woman, 
whoever  she  was,  had  power  of  a  curious  kind— 
too  much  power  for  her  to  be  altogether  vile,  too 
physically  healthy  to  be  of  that  class  to  which 
the  girl  who  handed  him  his  coffee  belonged. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  gaudiness  about  her — not 
a  ring,  a  necklace,  or  a  bracelet.  Her  dress  was 
of  cotton,  faintly  pink  and  perfectly  clean;  her 
hair  was  brown,  and  waving  away  loosely  from 
her  forehead.  But  her  eyes — was  there  a  touch 
of  insanity  there?  Perhaps  because  they  were 
rather  deeply  set,  though  large,  and  because  they 
seemed  to  glow  in  the  shadows  made  by  the 
brows,  the  strange  intensity  was  deepened.  But 
Shorland  could  not  get  rid  of  the  feeling  of  active 
malevolence  in  them.  The  mouth  was  neither 
small  nor  sensuous,  the  chin  was  strong  without 
being  coarse,  the  figure  was  not  suggestive.  The 
hands — confound  the  woman's  eyes!  Why  could 
he  not  get  rid  of  the  feeling  they  gave  him  ?  She 
suddenly  turned  her  head,  not  moving  her  chin 
from  her  hands,  however,  or  altering  her  position, 
and  said  something  to  a  man  at  her  elbow — rather 
the  wreck  of  a  man,  one  who  bore  tokens  of  hav- 
ing been  some  time  a  gallant  of  the  town,  now 
only  a  disreputable  citizen  of  a  far  from  reputable 
French  colony. 

Immediately  a  murmur  was  heard:    "A  spy, 
an  English  spy!"    From  the  mouths  of  absinthe- 

284 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

drinking  liberes  it  passed  to  the  mouths  of  rum- 
drinking  recidivistes.  It  did  not  escape  Blake 
Shorland's  ears,  but  he  betrayed  no  sign.  He 
sipped  his  coffee  and  appeared  absorbed  in  his 
paper,  thinking  carefully  of  the  difficulties  of  his 
position.  He  knew  that  to  rise  now  and  make 
for  the  door  would  be  of  no  advantage,  for  a 
number  of  the  excited  crowd  were  between  him 
and  it.  To  show  fear  might  precipitate  a  catas- 
trophe with  this  drunken  mob.  He  had  nerve 
and  coolness. 

Presently  a  dirty  outcast  passed  him  and  rudely 
jostled  his  arm  as  he  drank  his  coffee.  He  begged 
the  other's  pardon  conventionally  in  French,  and 
went  on  reading.  A  moment  later  the  paper  was 
snatched  from  his  hand,  and  a  red-faced,  unkempt 
scoundrel  yelled  in  his  face:  "Spy  of  the  devil! 
English  thief!" 

Then  he  rose  quickly  and  stepped  back  to  the 
wall,  feeling  for  the  spring  in  the  sword-stick 
which  he  held  closely  pressed  to  his  side.  This 
same  sword-stick  had  been  of  use  to  him  on  the 
Fly  River  in  New  Guinea. 

"Down  with  the  English  spy!"  rang  through 
the  room,  joined  to  vile  French  oaths.  Meanwhile 
the  woman  had  not  changed  her  position,  but 
closely  watched  the  tumult  which  she  herself  had 
roused.  She  did  not  stir  when  she  saw  a  glass 
hurled  at  the  unoffending  Englishman's  head.  A 
hand  reached  over  and  seized  a  bottle  behind  her. 
The  bottle  was  raised,  and  still  she  did  not  move, 

285 


CUMNER'S  SON 

though  her  fingers  pressed  her  cheeks  with  a 
spasmodic  quickness.  Three  times  Shorland  had 
said,  in  well-controlled  tones,  "Frenchmen,  I  am 
no  spy,"  but  they  gave  him  the  lie  with  increas- 
ing uproar.  Had  not  Gabrielle  Rouget  said  that 
he  was  an  English  spy  ?  'As  the  bottle  was  poised 
in  the  air  with  a  fiendish  cry  of  "A  baptism!  a 
baptism!"  and  Shorland  was  debating  on  his 
chances  of  avoiding  it,  and  on  the  wisdom  of  now 
drawing  his  weapon  and  cutting  his  way  through 
the  mob,  there  came  from  the  door  a  call  of 
"Hold!  hold!"  and  a  young  officer  dashed  in,  his 
arm  raised  against  the  brutal  missile  in  the  hands 
of  the  ticket-of-leave  man,  whose  Chauvinism 
was  a  matter  of  absinthe,  natural  evil,  and  Gabri- 
elle Rouget.  "Wretches!  scum  of  France!"  he 
cried.  "What  is  this  here?  And  you,  Gabrielle, 
do  you  sleep  ?  Do  you  permit  murder  ?" 

The  woman  met  the  fire  in  his  eyes  without 
flinching,  and  some  one  answered  for  her.  "He 
is  an  English  spy." 

"Take  care,  Gabrielle,"  the  young  officer  went 
on,  "take  care — you  go  too  far!"  Waving  back 
the  sullen  crowd,  now  joined  by  the  woman  who 
had  not  yet  spoken,  he  said:  "Who  are  you, 
monsieur?  What  is  the  trouble?" 

Shorland  drew  from  his  pocket  his  letters  and 
credentials.  Gabrielle  now  stood  at  the  young 
officer's  elbow.  As  the  papers  were  handed  over, 
a  photograph  dropped  from  among  them  and  fell 
to  the  floor  face  upward.  Shorland  stooped  to 

286 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

pick  it  up,  but,  as  he  did  so,  he  heard  a  low  ex- 
clamation from  Gabrielle.  He  looked  up.  She 
pointed  to  the  portrait,  and  said,  gaspingly: 
"My  God — look!  look!"  She  leaned  forward 
and  touched  the  portrait  in  his  hand.  "Look! 
look!"  she  said  again.  And  then  she  paused,  and 
a  moment  after  laughed.  But  there  was  no  mirth 
in  her  laughter — it  was  hollow  and  nervous. 
Meanwhile  the  young  officer  had  glanced  at  the 
papers,  and  now  handed  them  back,  with  the 
words:  "All  is  right,  monsieur — eh,  Gabrielle, 
well,  \vhat  is  the  matter?"  But  she  drew  back, 
keeping  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Englishman,  and 
did  not  answer. 

The  young  officer  stretched  out  his  hand.  "I 
am  Alencon  Barre,  lieutenant,  at  your  service. 
Let  us  go,  monsieur."  \ 

But  there  was  some  unusual  devilry  working  in 
that  drunken  crowd.  The  sight  of  an  officer  was 
not  sufficient  to  awe  them  into  obedience.  Bad 
blood  had  been  fired,  and  it  was  fed  by  some  cause 
unknown  to  Alencori  Barre,  but  to  be  understood 
fully  hereafter.  The  mass  surged  forward,  with 
cries  of  "Down  with  the  Englishman!" 

Alencon  Barre  drew  his  sword.  "Villains!"  he 
cried,  and  pressed  the  point  against  the  breast  of 
the  leader,  wrho  drew  back.  Then  Gabrielle's 
voice  was  heard:  "No,  no,  my  children,"  she  said, 
"no  more  of  that  to-day — not  to-day.  Let  the 
man  go."  Her  face  was  white  and  drawn. 

Shorland  had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  all 
19  287 


CUMNER'S  SON 

the  events  of  the  last  few  moments,  and  he  thought 
as  he  looked  at  her  that  just  such  women  had 
made  a  hell  of  the  Paris  Commune.  But  one 
thought  dominated  all  others.  What  was  the 
meaning  of  her  excitement  when  she  saw  the  por- 
trait— the  portrait  of  Luke  Freeman?  He  felt 
that  he  was  standing  on  the  verge  of  some  tragic 
history. 

Barre's  sword  again  made  a  clear  circle  round 
him,  and  he  said:  "Shame,  Frenchmen!  This 
gentleman  is  no  spy.  He  is  the  friend  of  the 
Governor — he  is  my  friend.  He  is  English  ?  Well, 
where  is  the  English  flag,  there  are  the  French- 
good  French — protected.  Where  is  the  French 
flag,  there  shall  the  English — good  English — be 
safe." 

As  they  moved  toward  the  door  Gabrielle  came 
forward,  and,  touching  Shorland's  arm,  said,  in 
English :  ' '  You  will  come  again,  monsieur  ?  You 
shall  be  safe  altogether.  You  will  come  ?"  Look- 
ing at  her  searchingly,  he  answered,  slowly: 
44 Yes,  I  will  come." 

As  they  left  the  turbulent  crowd  behind  them 
and  stepped  into  the  street,  Barre  said:  "You 
should  have  gone  at  once  to  the  Hotel  du  Gouver- 
neur  and  presented  your  letters,  monsieur,  or,  at 
least,  have  avoided  the  Cafe  Voisin.  Noumea  is 
the  Whitechapel  and  the  Pentonville  of  France,  re- 
member." 

Shorland  acknowledged  his  error,  thanked  his 
rescuer,  enjoyed  the  situation,  and  was  taken  to 

288 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

Governor  Rapont,  by  whom  he  was  cordially 
received,  and  then  turned  over  to  the  hospitality 
of  the  officers  of  the  post.  It  was  conveyed  to 
him  later  by  letters  of  commendation  from  the 
Governor  that  he  should  be  free  to  go  anywhere 
in  the  islands  and  to  see  whatever  was  to  be  seen, 
from  convict  prison  to  Hotel  Dieu. 


II 


Sitting  that  night  in  the  rooms  of  Alencon 
Barre,  this  question  was  put  to  Blake  Shorland 
by  his  host:  "What  did  Gabrielle  say  to  you  as 
we  left,  monsieur?  And  why  did  she  act  so 
when  she  saw  the  portrait  ?  I  do  not  understand 
English  well,  and  it  was  not  quite  clear." 

Shorland  had  a  clear  conviction  that  he  ought 
to  take  Alengon  Barre  into  his  confidence.  If 
Gabrielle  Rouget  should  have  any  special  con- 
nection with  Luke  Freeman,  there  might  be  need 
of  the  active  counsel  of  a  friend  like  this  young 
officer,  whose  face  bespoke  chivalry  and  gentle 
birth.  Better  that  Alengon  Barre  should  know  all 
than  that  he  should  know  in  part,  and  some  day 
unwittingly  make  trouble.  So  he  raised  frank 
eyes  to  those  of  the  other,  and  told  the  story  of 
the  man  whose  portrait  had  so  affected  Gabrielle 
Rouget. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  "I  will  tell  you  of  this  man 
289 


CUMNER'S   SON 

first,  and  then  it  will  be  easier  to  answer  your 
questions." 

He  took  the  portrait  from  his  pocket,  passed  it 
over,  and  continued.  "I  received  this  portrait 
in  a  letter  from  England  the  day  that  I  left 
Sydney,  as  I  was  getting  aboard  the  boat.  I 
placed  it  among  those  papers  which  you  read. 
It  fell  out  on  the  floor  of  the  cafe,  and  you  saw  the 
rest.  The  man  whose  face  is  before  you  there, 
and  who  sent  that  to  me,  was  my  best  friend  in 
the  days  when  I  was  at  school  and  college.  After- 
ward, when  a  law  student,  and,  still  later,  when 
I  began  to  practise  my  profession,  we  lived  to- 
gether in  a  rare  old  house  at  Fulham,  with  high 
garden  walls  and — but  I  forget,  you  do  not  know 
London,  perhaps.  Yes?  Well,  the  house  is  neither 
here  nor  there;  but  I  like  to  think  of  those  days 
and  of  that  home.  Luke  Freeman — that  was  my 
friend's  name — was  an  artist  and  a  clever  one. 
He  had  made  a  reputation  by  his  paintings  of 
Egyptian  and  Algerian  life.  He  was  brilliant  and 
original,  an  indefatigable  worker.  Suddenly,  one 
winter,  he  became  less  industrious,  fitful  in  his 
work,  gloomy  one  day  and  elated  the  next,  gen- 
erally uncomfortable.  What  was  the  matter? 
Strange  to  say,  although  we  were  such  friends,  we 
chose  different  sets  of  society,  and  therefore 
seldom  appeared  at  the  same  houses  or  knew  the 
same  people.  He  liked  most  things  continental; 
he  found  his  social  pleasures  in  that  polite  Bo- 
hemia which  indulges  in  midnight  suppers  and 

290 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

permits  ladies  to  smoke  cigarettes  after  dinner, 
which  dines  at  rich  men's  tables  and  is  hob-a-nob 
with  Russian  Counts,  Persian  Ministers,  and 
German  Barons.  That  was  not  to  my  taste,  save 
as  a  kind  of  dramatic  entertainment  to  be  indulged 
in  at  intervals  like  a  Drury  Lane  pantomime.  But 
though  I  had  no  proof  that  such  was  the  case,  I 
knew  Luke  Freeman's  malady  to  be  a  woman.  I 
taxed  him  with  it.  He  did  not  deny  it.  He  was 
painting  at  the  time,  I  remember,  and  he  testily 
and  unprofitably  drew  his  brush  across  the  face 
of  a  Copt  woman  he  was  working  at,  and  bit  off 
the  end  of  a  cigar.  I  asked  him  if  it  was  another 
man's  wife;  he  promptly  said  no.  I  asked  him 
if  there  were  any  awkward  complications,  any 
inconsiderate  pressure  from  the  girl's  parents  or 
brothers ;  and  he  promptly  told  me  to  be  damned. 
I  told  him  I  thought  he  ought  to  know  that  an 
ambitious  man  might  as  well  drown  himself  at 
once  as  get  a  fast  woman  in  his  path.  Then  he 
showed  a  faculty  for  temper  and  profanity  that 
stunned  me.  But  the  upshot  was  that  I  found 
the  case  straight  enough  to  all  appearances.  The 
woman  was  a  foreigner  and  not  easy  to  win;  was 
beautiful,  had  a  fine  voice,  loved  admiration,  and 
possessed  a  scamp  of  a  brother  who  wranted  her 
to  marry  a  foreigner,  so  that,  according  to  her 
father's  will,  a  large  portion  of  her  fortune  would 
come  to  him.  .  .  .  Were  you  going  to  speak  ?  No  ? 
Very  well.  Things  got  worse  and  worse.  Free- 
man neglected  business  and  everything  else,  be- 

291 


CUMNER'S  SON 

came  a  nuisance.  He  never  offered  to  take  me 
to  see  the  lady,  and  I  did  not  suggest  it,  did  not 
even  know  where  she  lived.  What  galled  me 
most  in  the  matter  was  that  Freeman  had  been 
for  years  attentive  to  a  cousin  of  mine,  Clare 
Hazard,  almost  my  sister,  indeed,  since  she  had 
been  brought  up  in  my  father's  house ;  and  I  knew 
that  from  a  child  she  had  adored  him.  However, 
these  things  seldom  work  out  according  to  the  law 
of  nature,  and  so  I  chewed  the  cud  of  dissatis- 
faction and  kept  the  thing  from  my  cousin  as  long 
as  I  could.  About  the  time  matters  seemed  at  a 
crisis  I  was  taken  ill,  and  was  ordered  south.  My 
mother  and  Freeman  accompanied  me  as  far  as 
Paris.  Here  Freeman  left  me  to  return  to 
England,  and  in  the  Caft  Voisin,  at  Paris — yes, 
mark  that — we  had  our  farewell.  I  have  never 
seen  him  since.  While  in  Italy  I  was  brought  to 
death's  door  by  my  illness;  and  when  I  got  up, 
Clare  told  me  that  Freeman  was  married  and  had 
gone  to  Egypt.  She,  poor  girl,  bore  it  well.  I 
was  savage,  but  it  was  too  late.  I  was  ordered  to 
go  to  the  South  Seas — at  least,  to  take  a  long  sea- 
voyage;  and  though  I  could  not  well  afford  it,  I 
started  for  Australia.  On  my  way  out  I  stopped 
off  at  Port  Said  to  try  and  find  Freeman  in  Egypt, 
but  failed.  I  heard  of  him  at  Cairo,  and  learned 
also  that  his  wife's  brother  had  joined  them. 
Two  years  passed,  and  then  I  got  a  letter  from  an 
old  friend,  saying  that  Freeman's  wife  had  eloped 
with  a  Frenchman.  Another  year,  and  then 

292 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

came  a  letter  from  Freeman  himself,  saying  that 
his  wife  was  dead ;  that  he  had  identified  her  body 
in  the  Morgue  at  Paris — found  drowned,  and  all 
that.  He  believed  that  remorse  had  driven  her 
to  suicide.  But  he  had  no  trace  of  the  brother, 
no  trace  of  the  villain  whom  he  had  scoured 
Europe  and  America  over  to  find.  Again,  another 
three  years,  and  now  he  writes  me  that  he  is  going 
to  be  married  to  Clare  Hazard  on  the  twenty- 
sixth  of  this  month.  With  that  information  came 
this  portrait.  I  tell  you  all,  M.  Barre,  because  I 
feel  that  this  woman  Gabrielle  has  some  connection 
with  the  past  life  of  my  friend  Luke  Freeman. 
She  recognized  the  face,  and  you  saw  the  effect. 
Now  will  you  tell  me  what  you  know  about  her?" 

Shorland  had  been  much  more  communicative 
than  was  his  custom.  But  he  knew  men.  This 
man  had  done  him  a  service,  and  that  made  tow- 
ard friendship  on  both  sides.  He  was  an  officer 
and  a  gentleman,  and  so  he  showed  his  hand. 
Then  he  wanted  information  and  perhaps  much 
more,  though  what  that  would  be  he  could  not 
yet  tell. 

M.  Barre  had  smoked  cigarettes  freely  during 
Shorland's  narrative.  At  the  end  he  said,  with 
peculiar  emphasis:  "Your  friend's  wife  was  surely 
a  Frenchwoman?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  her  name  Laroche?" 

"YeS,  that  was  it.  Do  you  think  that  Lucile 
Laroche  and  Gabrielle — !" 

293 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"That  Lucile  Laroche  and  Gabrielle  Rouget  are 
one?  Yes.  But  that  Lucile  Laroche  was  the 
wife  of  your  friend?  Well,  that  is  another  mat- 
ter. But  we  shall  see  soon.  Listen.  A  scoundrel, 
Henri  Durien,  was  sent  out  here  for  killing  an 
American  at  cards.  The  jury  called  it  murder, 
but  recommended  him  to  mercy,  and  he  escaped 
the  guillotine.  He  had  the  sympathy  of  the  wom- 
en, the  Press  did  not  deal  hardly  with  him,  and 
the  Public  Prosecutor  did  not  seem  to  push  the 
case  as  he  might  have  done.  But  that  was  no 
matter  to  us.  The  woman,  Gabrielle  Rouget,  fol- 
lowed him  here,  where  he  is  a  prisoner  for  life. 
He  is  engaged  in  road-making  with  other  prisoners. 
She  keeps  the  Cafe  Voisin.  Now  here  is  the  point 
which  concerns  your  story.  Once,  when  Gabrielle 
was  permitted  to  see  Henri,  they  quarrelled.  I 
was  acting  as  governor  of  the  prison  at  the  time, 
saw  the  meeting,  and  heard  the  quarrel.  No  one 
else  was  near.  Henri  accused  her  of  being  inti- 
mate with  a  young  officer  of  the  post.  I  am  sure 
there  was  no  truth  in  it,  for  Gabrielle  does  not 
have  followers  of  that  kind.  But  Henri  had  got 
the  idea  from  some  source — perhaps  by  the  con- 
victs' 'Underground  Railway,'  which  has  con- 
nection even  with  the  Hotel  du  Gouverneur. 
Through  it  the  prisoners  know  all  that  is  going 
on,  and  more.  In  response  to  Henri's  accusation 
Gabrielle  replied:  'As  I  live,  Henri,  it  is  a  lie!' 
He  sardonically  rejoined:  'But  you  do  not  live. 
You  are  dead — dead,  I  tell  you.  You  were  found 

294 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

drowned,  and  carried  to  the  Morgue  and  properly 
identified — not  by  me,  curse  you,  Lucile  Laroche. 
And  then  you  were  properly  buried,  and  not  by 
me  either,  nor  at  my  cost,  curse  you  again.  You 
are  dead,  I  tell  you!'  She  looked  at  him  as  she 
looked  at  you  the  other  day,  dazed  and  spectre- 
like,  and  said:  'Henri,  I  gave  up  my  life  once  to  a 
husband  to  please  my  brother.  He  was  a  villain, 
my  brother.  I  gave  it  up  a  second  time  to  please 
you,  and  because  I  loved  you.  I  left  behind  me 
name,  fortune,  Paris,  France,  everything,  to  follow 
you  here.  I  was  willing  to  live  here  while  you 
lived,  or  till  you  should  be  free.  And  you  curse 
me — you  dare  to  curse  me!  Now  I  will  give  you 
some  cause  to  curse.  You  are  a  devil — I  am  a 
sinner.  Henceforth  I  shall  be  devil  and  sinner 
too.'  With  that  she  left  him.  Since  then  she  has 
been  both  devil  and  sinner,  but  not  in  the  way  he 
meant ;  simply  a  danger  to  the  safety  of  this  dan- 
gerous community ;  a  Louise  Michel — we  had  her 
here,  too! — without  Louise  Michel's  high  motives. 
Gabrielle  Rouget  may  cause  a  revolt  of  the  con- 
victs some  day,  to  secure  the  escape  of  Henri 
Durien,  or  to  give  them  all  a  chance.  The  Gov- 
ernor does  not  believe  it,  but  I  do.  You  noticed 
what  I  said  about  the  Morgue,  and  that?" 

Shorland  paced  up  and  down  the  room  for  a 
time,  and  then  said:  "Great  Heaven,  suppose  that 
by  some  hideous  chance  this  woman,  Gabrielle 
Rouget,  or  Lucile  Laroche,  should  prove  to  be 
Freeman's  wife!  The  evidence  is  so  overwhelm- 

295 


CUMNER'S  SON 

ing.  There  evidently  was  some  trick,  some 
strange  mistake,  about  the  Morgue  and  the  burial. 
This  is  the  fourteenth  of  January;  Freeman  is  to 
be  married  on  the  twenty-sixth!  Monsieur,  if 
this  woman  should  be  his  wife,  there  never  was 
brewed  an  uglier  scrape.  There  is  Freeman — 
that's  pitiful;  there  is  Clare  Hazard — that's  piti- 
ful and  horrible.  For  nothing  can  be  done;  no 
cables  from  here,  the  Belle  Sauvage  gone,  no  ves- 
sels or  mails  for  two  weeks.  Ah  well,  there's  only 
one  thing  to  do — find  out  the  truth  from  Gabri- 
elle  if  I  can,  and  trust  in  Providence." 

"Well  spoken,"  said  M.  Barre.  "Have  some 
more  champagne.  I  make  the  most  of  the  pleas- 
ure of  your  company,  and  so  I  break  another 
bottle.  Besides,  it  may  be  the  last  I  shall  get 
for  a  time.  There  is  trouble  brewing  at  Bompari 
— a  native  insurrection — and  we  may  have  to 
move  at  any  moment.  However  this  Gabrielle 
affair  turns  out,  you  have  your  business  to  do. 
You  want  to  see  the  country,  to  study  our  life — 
well,  come  with  us.  We  will  house  you,  feed  you 
as  we  feed,  and  you  shall  have  your  tobacco  at 
army  prices." 

Much  as  Blake  Shorland  was  moved  by  the 
events  of  the  last  few  hours,  he  was  enough  the 
soldier  and  the  man  of  the  world  to  face  possible 
troubles  without  the  loss  of  appetite,  sleep,  or 
nerve.  He  had  cultivated  a  habit  of  deliberation 
which  saved  his  digestion  and  preserved  his 
mental  poise;  and  he  had  a  faculty  for  doing  the 

296 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

right  thing  at  the  right  time.  From  his  stand- 
point, his  late  adventure  in  the  Cafe  Voisin  was 
the  right  thing,  serious  as  the  results  might  have 
been  or  might  yet  be.  He  now  promptly  met  the 
French  officer's  exuberance  of  spirits  with  a  hearty 
gayety,  and  drank  his  wine  with  genial  compli- 
ment and  happy  anecdote.  It  was  late  when  they 
parted;  the  Frenchman  excited,  beaming,  joy- 
ous, the  Englishman  responsive,  but  cool  in  mind 
still. 

Ill 

After  breakfast  next  morning  Shorland  ex- 
pressed to  M.  Barre  his  intention  of  going  to  see 
Gabrielle  Rouget.  He  was  told  that  he  must  not 
go  alone;  a  guard  would  be  too  conspicuous  and 
might  invite  trouble;  he  himself  would  bear  him 
company. 

The  hot  January  day  was  reflected  from  the  red 
streets,  white  houses,  and  waxen  leaves  of  the 
tropical  foliage  with  enervating  force.  An  oc- 
casional ex-convict  sullenly  lounged  by,  touch- 
ing his  cap  as  he  was  required  by  law;  a  native 
here  and  there  leaned  idly  against  a  house-wall 
or  a  mangolia-tree ;  ill-looking  men  and  women 
loitered  in  the  shade.  A  Government  officer  went 
languidly  by  in  full  uniform — even  the  Governor 
wore  uniform  at  all  times  to  encourage  respect — 
and  the  cafes  were  filling.  Every  hour  was  "ab- 
sinthe-hour" in  Noumea,  which  had  improved  on 

297 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Paris  in  this  particular.  A  knot  of  men  stood  at 
the  door  of  the  Cafe  Voisin  gesticulating  nervous- 
ly. One  was  pointing  to  a  notice  posted  on  the 
bulletin-board  of  the  cafe  announcing  that  all 
citizens  must  hold  themselves  in  readiness  to  bear 
arms  in  case  the  rumored  insurrection  among  the 
natives  proved  serious.  It  was  an  evil-looking 
company  who  thus  discussed  Governor  Rapont's 
commands.  As  the  two  passed  in,  Shorland 
noticed  that  one  of  the  group  made  a  menacing 
action  toward  Alengon  Barre. 

Gabrielle  was  talking  to  an  ex-convict  as  they 
entered.  Her  face  looked  worn;  there  was  a 
hectic  spot  on  each  cheek  and  dark  circles  round 
the  eyes.  There  was  something  animal-like  about 
the  poise  of  the  head  and  neck,  something  intense 
and  daring  about  the  woman  altogether.  Her 
companion  muttered  between  his  teeth:  "The 
cursed  English  spy!" 

But  she  turned  on  him  sharply.  "Go  away, 
Gaspard,  I  have  business.  So  have  you — go." 
The  ex-convict  slowly  left  the  cafe,  still  muttering. 

"Well,  Gabrielle,  how  are  your  children  this 
morning?  They  look  gloomy  enough  for  the 
guillotine,  eh?"  said  M.  Barre. 

"They  are  much  trouble,  sometimes — my 
children." 

"Last  night,  for  instance." 

"Last  night.  But  monsieur  was  unwise.  We 
do  not  love  the  English  here.  They  do  not  find 
it  comfortable  on  English  soil,  in  Australia — my 

298 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

children!  Not  so  comfortable  as  Louis  Philippe 
and  Louis  Napoleon.  Criminal  kings  with  gold 
are  welcome;  criminal  subjects  without  gold — ah, 
that  is  another  matter,  monsieur.  It  is  just  the 
same.  They  may  be  gentlemen — many  are;  if 
they  escape  to  Australia  or  go  as  libfres,  they  are 
hunted  down.  That  is  English,  and  they  hate  the 
English — my  children." 

Gabrielle's  voice  was  directed  to  M.  Barre",  but 
her  eyes  were  on  Shorland. 

"Well,  Gabrielle,  all  English  are  not  inhospit- 
able. My  friend  here,  we  must  be  hospitable  to 
him.  The  coals  of  fire,  you  know,  Gabrielle.  We 
owe  him  something  for  yesterday.  He  wishes  to 
speak  to  you .  B  e  careful ,  Gabrielle .  No  communist 
justice,  Citizen  Gabrielle."  M.  Barre  smiled  gayly. 

Gabrielle  smiled  in  reply,  but  it  was  not  a 
pleasant  smile,  and  she  said:  "Treachery,  M. 
Barre — treachery  in  Noumea?  There  is  no  such 
thing.  It  is  all  fair  in  love  and  war.  No  quarter, 
no  mercy,  no  hope.  All  is  fair  where  all  is  foul, 
M.  Barre." 

M.  Barre  shrugged  his  shoulders  pleasantly,  and 
replied:  "If  I  had  my  way  your  freedom  should 
be  promptly  curtailed,  Gabrielle.  You  are  an 
active  citizen,  but  you  are  dangerous,  truly." 

"I  like  you  better  when  you  do  not  have  your 
way.  Yet  my  children  do  not  hate  you,  M. 
Barre.  You  speak  your  thought,  and  they  know 
what  to  expect.  Your  family  have  little  more 
freedom  in  France  than  my  children  have  here." 

299 


CUMNER'S  SON 

M.  Barre"  looked  at  her  keenly  for  an  instant; 
then,  lighting  a  cigarette,  he  said:  "So,  Gabrielle, 
so!  That  is  enough.  You  wish  to  speak  to  M. 
Shorland — well!"  He  waved  his  hand  to  her 
and  walked  away  from  them. 

Gabrielle  paused  a  moment,  looking  sharply  at 
Blake  Shorland;  then  she  said:  "Monsieur  will 
come  with  me?" 

She  led  the  way  into  another  room,  the  boudoir, 
sitting-room,  breakfast-room,  library,  all  in  one. 
She  parted  the  curtains  at  the  window,  letting  the 
light  fall  upon  the  face  of  her  companion,  while 
hers  remained  in  the  shadow.  He  knew  the  tiick, 
and  moved  out  of  the  belt  of  light.  He  felt  that 
he  was  dealing  with  a  woman  of  singular  astute- 
ness, with  one  whose  wickedness  was  unconven- 
tional and  intrepid.  To  his  mind  there  came  on 
the  instant  the  memory  of  a  Rocky  Mountain 
lioness  that  he  had  seen  caged  years  before  •  lithe, 
watchful,  nervously  powerful,  superior  to  its 
surroundings,  yet  mastered  by  those  surroundings 
— the  trick  of  a  lock,  not  a  trick  of  strength.  He 
thought  he  saw  in  Gabrielle  a  woman  who  for  a 
personal  motive  was  trying  to  learn  the  trick  of 
the  lock  in  Noumea,  France's  farthest  prison. 
For  a  moment  they  looked  at  each  other  steadily ; 
then  she  said:  "That  portrait — let  me  see  it." 

The  hand  that  she  held  out  was  unsteady,  and 
it  looked  strangely  white  and  cold.  He  drew  the 
photograph  from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her. 
A  flush  passed  across  her  face  as  she  looked  at  it, 

300 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

and  was  followed  by  a  marked  paleness.  She 
gazed  at  the  portrait  for  a  moment,  then  her  lips 
parted  and  a  great  sigh  broke  from  her.  She  was 
about  to  hand  it  back  to  him,  but  an  inspiration 
seemed  to  seize  her,  and  she  threw  it  on  the  floor 
and  put  her  heel  upon  it.  "That  is  the  way  I 
treated  him,"  she  said,  and  she  ground  her  heel 
into  the  face  of  the  portrait.  Then  she  took  her 
foot  away.  "See,  see,"  she  cried,  "how  his  face 
is  scarred  and  torn!  I  did  that.  Do  you  know 
what  it  is  to  torture  one  who  loves  you?  No, 
you  do  not.  You  begin  with  shame  and  regret. 
But  the  sight  of  your  lover's  agonies,  his  indigna- 
tion, his  anger,  madden  you,  and  you  get  the 
lust  of  cruelty.  You  become  insane.  You  make 
new  wounds.  You  tear  open  old  ones.  You  cut, 
you  thrust,  you  bruise,  you  put  acid  in  the  sores 
— the  sharpest  nitric  acid;  and  then  you  heal 
with  a  kiss  of  remorse,  and  that  is  acid  too — 
carbolic  acid,  and  it  smells  of  death.  They  put 
it  in  the  room  where  dead  people  are.  Have  you 
ever  been  to  the  Morgue  in  Paris?  They  use  it 
there." 

She  took  up  the  portrait.  "Look,"  she  said, 
"how  his  face  is  torn!  Tell  me  of  him." 

"First,  who  are  you?" 

She  steadied  herself.  "Who  are  you?"  she 
asked. 

"I  am  his  friend,  Blake  Shorland." 

"Yes,  I  remember  your  name."  She  threw 
her  hands  up  with  a  laugh,  a  bitter  hopeless  laugh. 

301 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Her  eyes  half  closed,  so  that  only  light  came 
from  them,  no  color.  The  head  was  thrown  back 
with  a  defiant  recklessness,  and  then  she  said:  "I 
was  Lucile  Laroche,  his  wife  —  Luke  Freeman's 
wife." 

"But  his  wife  died.  He  identified  her  in  the 
Morgue." 

"I  do  not  know  why  I  speak  to  you  so,  but  I 
feel  that  the  time  has  come  to  tell  all  to  you. 
That  was  not  his  wife  in  the  Morgue.  It  was  his 
wife's  sister,  my  sister  whom  my  brother  drowned 
for  her  money — he  made  her  life  such  a  misery! 
And  he  did  not  try  to  save  her  when  he  knew  she 
meant  to  drown  herself.  She  was  not  bad;  she 
was  a  thousand  times  better  than  I  am,  a  million 
times  better  than  he  was.  He  was  a  devil.  But 
he  is  dead  now  too.  .  .  .  She  was  taken  to  the 
Morgue.  She  looked  like  me  altogether;  she  wore 
a  ring  of  mine,  and  she  had  a  mark  on  her  shoul- 
der the  same  as  one  on  mine ;  her  initials  were  the 
same.  Luke  had  never  seen  her.  He  believed 
that  I  lay  dead  there,  and  he  buried  her  for  me. 
I  thought  at  the  time  that  it  would  be  best  I 
should  be  dead  to  him  and  to  the  world.  And 
so  I  did  not  speak.  It  was  all  the  same  to  my 
brother.  He  got  what  was  left  of  my  fortune, 
and  I  got  what  was  left  of  hers.  For  I  was  dead, 
you  see — dead,  dead,  dead!" 

She  paused  again.  Neither  spoke  for  a  mo- 
ment. Shorland  was  thinking  what  all  this  meant 
to  Clare  Hazard  and  Luke  Freeman. 

302 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

"Where  is  he ?  What  is  he  doing ?"  she  said,  at 
length.  "Tell  me.  I  was.  I  am — his  wife." 

"Yes,  you  were — you  are — his  wife.  But  bet- 
ter if  you  had  been  that  woman  in  the  Morgue," 
he  said,  without  pity.  What  were  this  creature's 
feelings  to  him?  There  was  his  friend  and  the 
true-souled  Clare. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  she  replied.     "Go  on!" 

"He  is  well.  The  man  that  was  born  when  his 
wife  lay  before  him  in  the  Morgue  has  found  an- 
other woman,  a  good  woman  who  loves  him, 
and—" 

"And  is  married  to  her?"  interrupted  Gabrielle, 
her  face  taking  on  again  a  shining  whiteness. 
But,  as  though  suddenly  remembering  something, 
she  laughed  that  strange  laugh  which  might  have 
come  from  a  soul  irretrievably  lost.  "And  is 
married  to  her?" 

Blake  Shorland  thought  of  the  lust  of  cruelty, 
of  the  wounds,  and  the  acids  of  torture.  "Not 
yet,"  he  said;  "but  the  marriage  is  set  for  the 
twenty-sixth  of  this  month." 

"How  I  could  spoil  all  that!" 

"Yes,  you  could  spoil  all  that.  But  you  have 
spoiled  enough  already.  Don't  you  think  that  if 
Luke  Freeman  does  marry,  you  had  better  be 
dead,  as  you  have  been  this  last  five  years  ?  To 
have  spoiled  one  life  ought  to  be  enough  to  satisfy 
even  a  woman  like  you." 

Her  eyes  looked  through  Blake  Shorland's  eyes 
and  beyond  them  to  something  else;  and  then 
20  3°3 


CUMNER'S  SON 

they  closed.  When  they  opened  again,  she  said: 
"It  is  strange  that  I  never  thought  of  his  marry- 
ing again.  And  now  I  want  to  kill  her — just  for 
the  moment.  That  is  the  selfish  devil  in  me. 
Well,  what  is  to  be  done,  monsieur?  There  is 
the  Morgue  left.  But  then  there  is  no  Morgue 
here.  Ah,  well,  we  can  make  one,  perhaps — we 
can  make  a  Morgue,  monsieur." 

"Can't  you  see  that  he  ought  to  be  left  the  rest 
of  his  life  in  peace?" 

"Yes,  I  can  see  that." 

"Well,  then!" 

"Well — and  then,  monsieur?  Ah,  you  did  not 
wish  him  to  marry  me.  He  told  me  so.  'A  fickle 
foreigner,'  you  said.  And  you  were  right,  but  it 
was  not  pleasant  to  me.  I  hated  you  then, 
though  I  had  never  spoken  to  you  nor  seen  you; 
not  because  I  wanted  him,  but  because  you  inter- 
fered. He  said  once  to  me  that  you  had  told  the 
truth  in  that.  But — and  then,  monsieur?" 

"Then  continue  to  efface  yourself.  Continue 
to  be  the  woman  in  the  Morgue." 

"But  others  know." 

"Yes;  Henri  Durien  knows,  and  M.  Barre 
suspects." 

"So,  you  see." 

"But  Henri  Durien  is  a  prisoner  for  life;  he 
cannot  hear  of  the  marriage  unless  you  tell  him. 
M.  Barre  is  a  gentleman;  he  is  my  friend;  his 
memory  will  be  dead  like  you." 

"For  M.  Barre,  well!     But  the  other— Henri. 
3°4 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

How  do  you  know  that  he  is  here  for  life?  Men 
get  pardoned,  men  get  free,  men — get  free,  I  tell 
you." 

Shorland  noticed  the  interrupted  wrord.  He 
remembered  it  afterward  all  too  distinctly  enough. 

"The  twenty-sixth,  the  twenty-sixth,"  she  said. 
Then  a  pause;  and  afterward,  with  a  sudden  sharp- 
ness: "Come  to  me  on  the  twenty-fifth,  and  I 
will  give  you  my  reply,  M.  Shorland." 

He  still  held  the  portrait  in  his  hand.  She 
stepped  forward.  "Let  me  see  it  again,"  she 
said. 

He  handed  it  to  her:  "You  have  spoiled  a  good 
face,  Gabrielle." 

"But  the  eyes  are  not  hurt,"  she  replied;  "see 
how  they  look  at  one."  She  handed  it  back. 

"Yes,  kindly." 

"And  sadly.  As  though  he  still  remembered 
Lucile.  Lucile!  I  have  not  been  called  that 
name  for  a  long  time.  It  is  on  my  gravestone, 
you  know.  Ah,  perhaps  you  do  not  know.  You 
never  saw  my  grave.  I  have.  And  on  the  tomb- 
stone is  written  this:  By  Luke  to  Lucile.  And 
then  beneath,  where  the  grass  almost  hides  it,  the 
line :  /  have  followed  my  Star  to  the  last.  You  do 
not  know  what  that  line  means;  I  will  tell  you. 
Once,  when  we  were  first  married,  he  wrote  me 
some  verses,  and  he  called  them,  My  Star,  Lucile. 
Here  is  a  verse — ah,  why  do  you  not  smile  when 
I  say  I  will  tell  you  what  he  wrote?  Chut! 
Women  such  as  I  have  memories  sometimes. 

3°5 


CUMNER'S  SON 

One  can  admire  the  Heaven  even  if  one  lives  in 
—  ah,  you  know!      Listen."     And  with  a  voice 
that  seemed  far  away  and  not  part  of  herself  she 
repeated  these  lines: 

"  In  my  sky  of  delight  there's  a  beautiful  Star, 

"Pis  the  sun  and  the  moon  of  my  days; 
And  the  doors  of  its  glory  are  ever  ajar, 

And  I  live  in  the  glow  of  its  rays. 
'Tis  my  winter  of  joy  and  my  summer  of  rest, 

Tis  my  future,  my  present,  my  past; 
And  though  storms  fill  the  East  and  the  clouds 

haunt  the  West, 
I  shall  follow  my  Star  to  the  last." 

"There,  that  was  to  Lucile.  What  would  he 
write  to  Gabrielle — to  Henri's  Gabrielle?  How 
droll — how  droll!"  Again  she  laughed  that  laugh 
of  eternal  recklessness. 

It  filled  Shorland  this  time  with  a  sense  of  fear. 
He  lost  sight  of  everything — this  strange  and  in- 
teresting woman,  and  the  peculiar  nature  of  the 
events  in  which  he  was  sharing,  and  saw  only  Clare 
Hazard's  ruined  life,  Luke  Freeman's  despair,  and 
the  fatal  twenty-sixth  of  January,  so  near  at  hand. 
He  could  see  no  way  out  of  the  labyrinth  of  dis- 
grace. It  unnerved  him  more  than  anything  that 
had  ever  happened  to  him,  and  he  turned  be- 
wildered toward  the  door.  He  saw  that  while 
Gabrielle  lived,  a  dread  misfortune  would  be  ever 
crouching  at  the  threshold  of  Freeman's  home, 
that  whether  the  woman  agreed  to  be  silent  or 

306 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

not,  the  hurt  to  Clare  would  remain  the  same. 
With  an  angry  bitterness  in  his  voice  that  he  did 
not  try  to  hide,  he  said:  "There  is  nothing  more 
to  be  done  now,  Gabrielle,  that  I  can  see.  But  it 
is  a  crime — it  is  a  pity!" 

"A  pity  that  he  did  not  tell  the  truth  on  the 
gravestone — that  he  did  not  follow  his  star  to  the 
last,  monsieur?  How  droll!  And  you  should  see 
how  green  the  grass  was  on  my  grave!  Yes,  it 
is  a  pity." 

But  Shorland,  heavy  at  heart,  looked  at  her 
and  said  nothing  more.  He  wondered  why  it 
was  that  he  did  not  loathe  her.  Somehow,  even 
in  her  shame,  she  compelled  a  kind  of  admiration 
and  awe.  She  was  the  wreck  of  splendid  possi- 
bilities. A  poisonous  vitality  possessed  her,  but 
through  it  glowed  a  daring  and  a  candor  that 
belonged  to  her  before  she  became  wicked,  and 
that  now  half  redeemed  her  in  the  eyes  of  this 
man,  who  knew  the  worst  of  her.  Even  in  her  sin 
she  was  loyal  to  the  scoundrel  for  whom  she  had 
sacrificed  two  lives,  her  own  and  another's.  Her 
brow  might  flush  with  shame  of  the  mad  deed 
that  turned  her  life  awry,  and  of  the  degradation  of 
her  present  surroundings;  but  her  eyes  looked 
straight  into  those  of  Shorland  without  wavering, 
with  the  pride  of  strength  if  not  of  goodness. 

"Yes,  there  is  one  thing  more,"  she  said.  "Give 
me  that  portrait  to  keep — until  the  twenty-fifth. 
Then  you  may  take  it — from  the  woman  in  the 
Morgue." 

307 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Shorland  thought  for  a  moment.  She  had 
spoken  just  now  without  sneering,  without  bra- 
vado, without  hardness.  He  felt  that  behind 
this  woman's  outward  cruelty  and  varying  moods 
there  was  something  working  that  perhaps  might 
be  trusted,  something  in  Luke's  interest.  He 
was  certain  that  this  portrait  had  moved  her 
deeply.  Had  she  come  to  that  period  of  reaction 
in  evil  when  there  is  an  agonized  desire  to  turn 
back  toward  the  good  ?  He  gave  the  portrait  to 
her. 

IV 

Sitting  in  Alencon  Barre's  room  an  hour  later, 
Shorland  told  him  in  substance  the  result  of  his 
conference  with  Gabrielle,  and  begged  his  con- 
sideration for  Luke  if  the  worst  should  happen. 
Alencon  Barre  gave  his  word  as  a  man  of  honor 
that  the  matter  should  be  sacred  to  him.  As 
they  sat  there,  a  messenger  came  from  the  com- 
mandant to  say  that  the  detachment  was  to  start 
that  afternoon  for  Bompari.  Then  a  note  was 
handed  to  Shorland  from  Governor  Rapont  offer- 
ing him  a  horse  and  a  native  servant  if  he  chose  to 
go  with  the  troops.  This  was  what  Shorland  had 
come  for — news  and  adventure.  He  did  not 
hesitate,  though  the  shadow  of  the  twenty-fifth 
was  hanging  over  him.  He  felt  his  helplessness 
in  the  matter,  but  determined  to  try  to  be  back 
in  Noumea  on  that  date.  Not  that  he  expected 

308 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

anything  definite,  but  because  he  had  a  feeling 
that  where  Gabrielle  was  on  that  day  he  ought 
to  be. 

For  two  days  they  travelled,  the  friendship 
between  them  growing  hourly  closer.  It  was  the 
swift  amalgamation  of  two  kindred  natures  in  the 
flame  of  a  perfect  sincerity,  for  even  with  the 
dramatic  element  so  strongly  developed  in  him, 
the  Englishman  was  downright  and  true.  His 
friendship  was  as  tenacious  as  his  head  was  cool. 

On  the  evening  of  the  third  day  Shorland  noticed 
that  the  strap  of  his  spur  was  frayed.  He  told 
his  native  servant  to  attend  to  it.  Next  morning, 
as  they  were  starting,  he  saw  that  the  strap  had 
not  been  mended  or  replaced.  His  language  on 
the  occasion  was  pointed  and  confident.  The 
fact  is,  he  was  angry  with  himself  for  trusting 
anything  to  a  servant.  He  was  not  used  to  such 
a  luxury,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  live  for  the 
rest  of  the  campaign  without  a  servant,  as  he  had 
done  all  his  life  long. 

The  two  friends  rode  side  by  side  for  miles 
through  the  jungle  of  fern  and  palm,  and  then 
began  to  enter  a  more  open  but  scrubby  country. 
The  scouts  could  be  seen  half  a  mile  ahead.  Not 
a  sign  of  natives  had  been  discovered  on  the 
march.  More  than  once  Barre  had  expressed  his 
anxiety  at  this.  He  knew  it  pointed  to  concen- 
trated trouble  ahead,  and,  just  as  they  neared 
the  edge  of  the  free  country,  he  rose  in  his  saddle 
and  looked  around  carefully.  Shorland  imitated 

309 


CUMNER'S  SON 

his  action,  and,  as  he  resumed  his  seat,  he  felt 
his  spur-strap  break.  He  leaned  back,  and  drew 
up  his  foot  to  take  off  the  spur.  As  he  did  so, 
he  felt  a  sudden  twitch  at  his  side,  and  Barre 
swayed  in  his  saddle  with  a  spear  in  the  groin. 
Shorland  caught  him  and  prevented  him  falling 
to  the  ground.  A  wild  cry  rose  from  the  jungle 
behind  and  from  the  clearing  ahead,  and  in  a 
moment  the  infuriated  French  soldiers  were  in 
the  thick  of  a  hand-to-hand  fray  under  a  rain  of 
spears  and  clubs.  The  spear  that  had  struck 
Barre  would  have  struck  Shorland  had  he 
not  bent  backward  when  he  did.  As  it  was, 
the  weapon  had  torn  a  piece  of  cloth  from  his 
coat. 

A  moment,  and  the  wounded  man  was  lifted 
to  the  ground.  The  surgeon  shook  his  head  in  sad 
negation.  Death  already  blanched  the  young 
officer's  face.  Shorland  looked  into  the  misty 
eyes  with  a  sadness  only  known  to  those  who  can 
gauge  the  regard  of  men  who  suffer  for  each 
other.  Four  days  ago  this  gallant  young  officer 
had  taken  risk  for  him,  had  saved  him  from 
injury,  perhaps  death;  to-day  the  spear  meant 
for  him  had  stricken  down  this  same  young  officer, 
never  to  rise  again.  The  vicarious  sacrifice 
seemed  none  the  less  noble  to  the  Englishman 
because  it  was  involuntary  and  an  accident.  The 
only  point  clear  in  his  mind  was  that  had  he  not 
leaned  back,  Barre  would  be  the  whole  man  and 
he  the  wounded  one. 

310 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

"How  goes  it,  my  friend?"  said  Shorland, 
bending  over  him. 

Alengon  Barre  looked  up,  agony  twitching  his 
nostrils  and  a  dry  white  line  on  his  lips.  "Ah, 
mon  camarade,"  he  answered,  huskily,  "it  is  in 
action — that  is  much;  it  is  for  France,  that  is 
more  to  me — everything.  They  would  not  let 
me  serve  France  in  Paris,  but  I  die  for  her  in  New 
Caledonia.  I  have  lived  six-and-twenty  years. 
I  have  loved  the  world.  Many  men  have  been  kind, 
and  once  there  was  a  woman — and  I  shall  see  her 
soon,  quite  soon.  It  is  strange.  The  eyes  will 
become  blind,  and  then  they  will  open,  and — ah!" 
His  fingers  closed  convulsively  on  those  of  Blake 
Shorland.  When  the  ghastly  tremor,  the  deadly 
corrosions  of  the  poisoned  spear,  passed,  he  said, 
"So — so!  It  is  the  end.  C'est  bien,  c'est  bien!" 

All  round  them  the  fight  raged,  and  French  sol- 
diers were  repeating  English  bravery  in  the  Soudan. 

"It  is  not  against  a  great  enemy,  but  it  is  good," 
said  the  wounded  man,  as  he  heard  the  conquering 
cries  of  a  handful  of  soldiers  punishing  ten  times 
their  numbers.  "You  remember  Prince  Eugene 
and  the  assegais?" 

"I  remember." 

"Our  Houses  were  enemies,  but  we  were  friends, 
he  and  I.  And  so,  and  so,  you  see,  it  is  the  same 
for  both." 

Again  the  teeth  of  the  devouring  poison  fastened 
on  him,  and,  when  it  left  him,  a  gray  pallor  had 
settled  upon  the  face. 


CUMNER'S  SON 

Blake  Shorland  said  to  him,  gently:  "How  do 
you  feel  about  it  all?" 

As  if  in  gentle  protest,  the  head  moved  slightly. 
"All's  well,  all's  well,"  the  low  voice  said. 

A  pause,  in  which  the  cries  of  the  wounded  came 
through  the  smoke,  and  then  the  dying  man, 
feeling  the  approach  of  another  convulsion,  said: 
"A  cigarette,  mon  ami." 

Blake  Shorland  put  a  cigarette  between  his 
lips  and  lighted  it. 

"And  now  a  little  wine,"  the  fallen  soldier 
added. 

The  surgeon,  who  had  come  again  for  a  moment, 
nodded  and  said:  "It  may  help." 

Barrels  native  servant  brought  a  bottle  of 
champagne  intended  to  be  drunk  after  the  ex- 
pected victory,  but  not  in  this  fashion! 

Shorland  understood.  This  brave  young  soldier 
of  a  dispossessed  family  wished  to  show  no  fear 
of  pain,  no  lack  of  outward  and  physical  courage 
in  the  approaching  and  final  shock.  He  must  do 
something  that  was  conventional,  natural,  habit- 
ual, that  would  take  his  mind  from  the  thing 
itself.  At  heart  he  was  right.  The  rest  was  a 
question  of  living  like  a  strong-nerved  soldier  to 
the  last.  The  tobacco-smoke  curled  feebly  from 
his  lips,  and  was  swallowed  up  in  the  clouds  of 
powder-smoke  that  circled  round  them.  With 
his  head  on  his  native  servant's  knee  he  watched 
Shorland  uncork  the  bottle  and  pour  the  wine 
into  the  surgeon's  medicine-glass.  It  was  put  in 

312 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

his  fingers;  he  sipped  it  once,  and  then  drank  it 
all.  "Again,"  he  said. 

Again  it  was  filled.  The  cigarette  was  smoked 
nearly  to  the  end.  Shorland  must  unburden  his 
mind  of  one  thought,  and  he  said:  "You  took 
what  was  meant  for  me,  my  friend." 

"Ah,  no,  no!  It  was  the  fortune,  we  will  say 
the  good  fortune.  Cest  bien!"  Then,  "The 
wine,  the  wine,"  he  said,  and  his  fingers  again 
clasped  those  of  Shorland  tremblingly.  He  took 
the  glass  in  his  right  hand  and  lifted  it.  "God 
guard  all  at  home!  God  keep  France!"  he  said. 
He  was  about  to  place  the  glass  to  his  lips,  when 
a  tremor  seized  him,  and  the  glass  fell  from  his 
hand.  He  fell  back,  his  breath  quick  and  vanish- 
ing, his  eyes  closing,  and  a  faint  smile  upon  his 
lips.  "It  is  always  the  same  with  France,"  he 
said;  "always  the  same."  And  he  was  gone. 


V 

The  French  had  bought  their  victory  dear  with 
the  death  of  Alengon  Barre,  their  favorite  officer. 
When  they  turned  their  backs  upon  a  quelled  in- 
surrection, there  was  a  gap  that  not  even  French 
buoyancy  could  fill.  On  the  morning  of  the  twenty- 
fifth  they  neared  Noumea.  Shorland  thought  of 
all  that  day  meant  to  Luke  and  Clare.  He  was 
helpless  to  alter  the  course  of  events,  to  stay  a 
terrible  possibility. 


CUMNER'S  SON 

"You  can  never  trust  a  woman  of  Gabrielle's 
stamp,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  they  rode  along 
through  valleys  of  ferns,  grenadillas,  and  limes. 
"They  have  no  base-line  of  duty;  they  either  rend 
themselves  or  rend  others,  but  rend  they  must, 
hearts  and  not  garments.  Henri  Durien  knows, 
and  she  knows,  and  Alencon  Barre  knew,  poor 
boy!  But  what  Barre  knew  is  buried  with  him 
back  there  under  the  palms.  Luke  and  Clare 
are  to  be  married  to-morrow — God  help  them! 
And  I  can  see  them  in  their  home,  he  standing 
by  the  fireplace  in  his  old  way — it's  winter  there— 
and  looking  down  at  Clare;  and  on  the  other  side 
of  the  fire  place  sits  the  sister  of  the  Woman  in  the 
Morgue,  waiting  for  the  happiest  moment  in  the 
lives  of  these  two  before  her.  And  when  it  comes, 
as  she  did  with  the  portrait,  as  she  did  with  him 
before,  she  will  set  her  foot  upon  his  face  and 
then  on  Clare's;  only  neither  Luke  nor  Clare 
will  live  again  after  that  crucifixion."  Then 
aloud:  "Hello!  what's  that? — a  messenger  riding 
hard  to  meet  us!  Smoke  in  the  direction  of 
Noumea  and  sound  of  firing!  What's  that, 
doctor?  Convicts  revolted,  made  a  break  at  the 
prison  and  on  the  way  to  the  quarries  at  the  same 
moment!  Of  course — seized  the  time  when  the 
post  was  weakest,  helped  by  ticket-of -leave-men 
and  led  by  Henri  Durien,  Gaspard,  and  Gabrielle 
Rouget.  Gabrielle  Rouget,  eh!  And  this  is  the 
twenty-fifth!  Yes,  I  will  take  Barre's  horse,  cap- 
tain, thank  you;  it  is  fresher  than  mine.  Away 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

we  go!  Egad,  they're  at  it,  doctor!  Hear  the 
rifles!" 

Answering  to  the  leader's  cry  of  "Forward, 
forward!"  the  detachment  dashed  into  the  streets 
of  this  little  Paris,  which,  after  the  fashion  of  its 
far-away  mother,  was  dipping  its  hands  in  Revolu- 
tion. Outcast  and  criminal  France  were  arrayed 
against  military  France  once  more.  A  handful 
of  guards  in  the  prison  of  He  Nou  were  bravely 
holding  in  check  a  ruthless  mob  of  convicts,  and 
a  crowd  of  convicts  in  the  street  keeping  back  a 
determined  military  force.  Part  of  the  newly 
arrived  reinforcements  proceeded  to  He  Nou,  part 
moveds  toward  the  barricade.  Shorland  went  to 
the  barricade. 

The  convicts  had  the  Cafe  Voisin  in  their  rear. 
As  the  reinforcements  joined  the  besieging  party 
a  cheer  arose,  and  a  sally  was  made  upon  the 
barricade.  It  was  a  hail  of  fire  meeting  a  slighter 
rain  of  fire — a  cry  of  coming  victory  cutting 
through  a  sullen  roar  of  despair.  The  square  in 
which  the  convicts  were  massed  was  a  trench  of 
blood  and  bodies;  but  they  fought  on.  There 
was  but  one  hope — to  break  out,  to  meet  the 
soldiers  hand  to  hand  and  fight  for  passage  to  the 
friendly  jungle  and  to  the  sea,  where  they  might 
trust  to  that  Providence  who  appears  to  help  even 
the  wicked  sometimes.  As  Shorland  looked  upon 
the  scene  he  thought  of  Alengon  Barrels  words :  "  It 
is  always  the  same  with  France,  always  the  same." 

The   fight   grew   fiercer,    the   soldiers   pressed 


CUMNER'S  SON 

nearer.  And  now  one  clear  voice  was  heard  above 
the  din,  "Forward,  forward,  my  children!"  and 
some  one  sprang  upon  the  outer  barricade.  It 
was  the  plotter  of  the  revolt,  the  leader,  the 
manager  of  the  "Underground  Railway,"  the 
beloved  of  the  convicts — Gabrielle  Rouget. 

The  sunlight  glorified  her  flying  hair  and  vivid 
dress — vivid  with  the  blood  of  the  fallen.  Her 
arms,  her  shoulders,  her  feet  were  bare;  all  that 
she  could  spare  from  her  body  had  gone  to  bind  the 
wounds  of  her  desperate  comrades.  In  her  hands 
she  held  a  carbine.  As  she  stood  for  an  instant 
unmoving,  the  firing,  as  if  by  magic,  ceased.  She 
raised  a  hand.  "We  will  have  the  guillotine  in 
Paris,"  she  said,  "but  not  the  hell  of  exile  here." 

Then  Henri  Durien,  the  convict,  sprang  up 
beside  her;  the  man  for  whom  she  had  made  a 
life's  sacrifice — for  whom  she  had  come  to  this! 
His  head  was  bandaged  and  clotted  with  blood; 
his  eyes  shone  with  the  fierceness  of  an  animal  at 
bay.  Close  after  him  crowded  the  handful  of  his 
frenzied  compatriots  in  crime. 

Then  a  rifle-crack  was  heard,  and  Henri  Durien 
fell  at  the  feet  of  Gabrielle.  The  wave  on  the 
barricade  quivered,  and  then  Gabrielle's  voice 
was  heard,  crying:  "Avenge  him!  Free  your- 
selves, my  children !  Death  is  better  than  prison ! " 

The  wave  fell  in  red  turmoil  on  the  breakers. 
And  still  Gabrielle  stood  alone  above  the  body  of 
Henri  Durien,  but  the  carbine  was  fallen  from 
her  hands.  She  stood  as  one  awaiting  death,  her 

316 


A  PAGAN  OF  THE  SOUTH 

eyes  upon  the  unmoving  form  at  her  feet.  The 
soldiers  watched  her,  but  no  one  fired.  Her  face 
was  white,  but  in  the  eyes  there  was  a  wild 
triumph.  She  wanted  death  now,  but  these 
French  soldiers  had  not  the  heart  to  kill  her. 
When  she  saw  that,  she  leaned  and  thrust  a  hand 
into  the  bleeding  bosom  of  Henri  Durien,  and, 
holding  it  aloft,  cried:  "For  this  blood  men  must 
die!"  Stooping  again,  she  seized  the  carbine  and 
levelled  it  at  the  officer  in  command.  Before 
she  could  pull  the  trigger  some  one  fired,  and  she 
fell  across  the  body  of  her  lover.  A  moment 
afterward  Shorland  stood  beside  her.  She  was 
shot  through  the  lungs. 

He  stooped  over  her.  "Gabrielle,  Gabrielle!" 
he  said. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know — I  saw  you.  This  is  the 
twenty-fifth.  He  will  be  married  to-morrow — 
Luke.  I  owed  it  to  him  to  die;  I  owed  it  to 
Henri  to  die  this  way." 

She  drew  the  scarred  portrait  of  Luke  Freeman 
from  her  bosom  and  gave  it  over. 

"His  eyes  made  me,"  she  said;  "they  haunted 
me.  Well,  it  is  all  done.  I  am  sorry,  ah!  Never 
tell  him  of  this.  I  go  away— away— with  Henri." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  was  still  for  a  moment; 
so  still  that  he  thought  her  dead.  But  she  looked 
up  at  him  again  and  said,  with  her  last  breath:  "I 
am— the  Woman  in  the  Morgue— always— now!" 


THE   END 


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